


Buzzing

by Chzu



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Aquaphobia, Book 3: Mockingjay, Counseling, Dark, Depression, District 13, Electrocution, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Epilogue Mockingjay, Recovery, Therapy, Torture, Trauma, Water Torture, Waterboarding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-03-13 23:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3399695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chzu/pseuds/Chzu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the sound she's grown to dread. Johanna Mason is detained in the Capitol after the events of the 75th Hunger Games. Johanna-centric, follows through the ending of Catching Fire, during her torture, and her subsequent rescue & recovery. May contain Joniss in later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Buzzing

It started when Johanna was in the arena. Perhaps it was more of a ringing sensation, filling her ears as the forcefield shattered from above. When it happened, she was running away from Brutus and Enobaria. In the disorientation, it was hard to hear the hovercrafts approaching. She saw them when they appeared, and at first, she thought it was the Rebels. They were fulfilling their promises to save Katniss, right? Why wouldn’t they get Johanna out, too? They owed her that much, for all the effort she went through to keep that knocked up teenager alive. So, logically, she let the hovercraft take her away from the disgusting, hot-as-hell arena. Better District 13 than a clocked-shaped, nightmare-filled rainforest that rained blood instead of actual rain.

Upon entering the hovercraft, she was relieved to see Peeta on board. He was laying unconscious, sure, but the rebels stated their plan on getting him out as well. The good news relieved Johanna, calming her suspicions, if only for a moment. She was safe. Lover boy was safe. So, where was Katniss? Where were the other Victors? Johanna wasn’t delirious. She knew for a fact that she ripped the tracker out of the girl’s arm. Given the fact that Johanna was far too busy running, she hadn’t the time to get rid of her own tracker, or Peeta’s, for that matter…

 _Wait._  Her tracker was still inside of her, and so was Peeta’s.

The realization hit her like a head-on collision, and before she even had the time to panic, to  _protest, to fight…_  Before she had the opportunity to do  _anything_ , she was knocked out of consciousness.

When Johanna survived her first Hunger Games, she was immediately given morphling for the injuries she’d sustained. This time around, things were completely different. They were pumping something into her; that much, she could tell, but it did nothing to stop the aches she had. It could’ve been a very low dosage of sedative. Nothing trustworthy, of course. She was stuck in a loop of fighting for awareness and slipping back into darkness. In between this, she was occasionally able to hear voices, to grasp fragments of conversations. The hovercraft was going somewhere.

It was going to the Capitol.

How long Johanna was sedated, she was not certain. The memories after her eavesdropping and clashing with nightmares were blurred, dulled. She was not weaned off the mystery drug they put her on. In fact, the bastards in charge of keeping her down had no problem with ripping the IV from her veins, leaving an ugly bruise on the back of her hand. She could remember rubbing the sore spot and spewing slurred profanities as a prep team gathered around her. Johanna could say— _and, well, she already did say_ —a lot of horrible things about the Capitol, but she couldn’t say they failed at gift-wrapping exhausted people. The extent her prep team went to  _beautify_  her was disgusting. It was only after the walking eyesores had forced her into a sleek, fancy-looking dress that she realized just why they had.

If the devil had a voice, it would be identical to that of Panem’s President.

"Johanna Mason. How wonderful it is to see you again."

At that moment, Johanna was nothing short of seething. The animalistic instincts deep within the back of her mind told her to lunge. So, she did, and before she could wrap her arms around Snow’s throat, as she so often dreamed of doing, she was restrained by two hefty Peacekeepers. Between her lips cried a noise of exertion—a high-pitched, nonetheless brief grunt that conveyed both fury and momentary pain.

"Well?!" her demand echoed throughout the luxurious Capitol room, "What the fuck do you want? What more can you  _possibly_  take from me?”

President Coriolanus Snow. What a piece of work. What an  _abhorrent_ , repulsive piece of work. He had already done so much to make Johanna’s life a living Hell. What a history they shared, with her refusal to lose agency over her body and his demolishing of everyone she ever cared about. Even after the time that passed, he still had a way of staying so calm whenever she lost her temper. The way he now folded his hands over his lap, giving the smallest trace of a smirk behind that white beard of his only fueled her anger.

"Johanna," Snow started cooly, gesturing to the room around him, "I’ve brought you here to make a compromise with you. Have a seat."

A seat was the last thing she wanted to have. Of course, what she wanted didn’t matter at all, when the Peacekeepers forced her into a cushy chair across from the President himself. Johanna kindly directed a loathing glare in his direction. “Really? Forgive me if I’m hesitant to do any business with you,” She tapped her finger to her chin, as if she were recollecting something. “From what I remember, our last _compromise_  was what lead to my entire family being roasted.”

The President leaned toward Johanna, who was still struggling beneath the tight grip of the guards. He looked deep into her eyes, an uncomfortable stare that showed no sincerity. “I understand that we have had our little  _disagreements_  in the past. This is why I am giving you a second chance.”

"A second chance for what?" the young woman let out a loud snicker, one that lacked a trace of humor to it, "Ruining my life again? Sorry, Snow, but I’ve got nothing left for you to take. My pockets are totally empty!"

The low chuckle that escaped Coriolanus was identically humorless, and he spoke with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s where you’re wrong, Miss Mason. You have something that our dear Peeta doesn’t.”

A wave of dread sunk into her stomach at the mention of Peeta. She almost forgot. If Johanna was in the Capitol, so was he. Who knows what they could’ve been doing to him at that moment. From what Johanna could recall, the poor sap didn’t share the knowledge she had.  _Knowledge of the rebellion._  In that moment, it became very clear what Snow wanted, and it was clear from the smug look on the bastard’s face that he noticed her realization. Her lack of a response was the perfect cue for Snow to continue. “You know all about our dearest Mockingjay.”

Her heart was beating way too intensely. The color must’ve drained from her face, at this point, as Snow was very amusedly gauging her reaction. Johanna did all she could to mask the waver in her voice, her one-word response barely coming out strong, “So?”

"That is where our compromise begins, Johanna. You’re going to tell me everything you know about Katniss Everdeen and the rebellion."

Giving a jerk of her bruising biceps that were still being clenched between Peacekeeper gloves, Johanna leaned back in her chair, folding her legs. Again, it took a world of effort not to appear tiny under the thick layer of intimidation that shrouded the room. “What if I don’t?”

A grave quitness followed, and Johanna found herself holding still for once, watching Snow’s chest rise and fall as he inhaled and exhaled slowly. There was an almost  _regretful_  tone in his voice, though it couldn’t have been anything other than feigned. “I’m afraid we’ll have to use force to get that information from you.”

Johanna’s lips turned upward into the most forceful smirk she could muster, giving one final, abrupt struggle of her held-down arms. She spat her words out like venom, annunciating them properly as she could ever manage, “You can go to Hell.”

These were the last words she uttered before she was dragged, kicking and fighting, out of the President’s living space.

* * *

 

As it happened, the Capitol had no intentions on wasting time with Johanna. As soon as she was pulled away from the President, she was lead to a prison-like chamber and slammed into a cell. It was inside of this cell that she was met with a chair that bore a morbid resemblance to what might’ve been used in an execution. She barely had the chance to question the machines hooked up to it before she was strapped into the chair.

"You’re not getting anything out of me," Johanna called to the Peacekeepers as they walked out of the cell. Well, those straps weren’t loosening anytime soon. She sighed to herself, closing her eyes. There was a lot of information on the Rebellion that she held. Her and the other Victors? They spent months planning, communicating out of Capitol earshot. If she gave away anything she knew to Snow, the whole rebellion could’ve been devastated. People could die. Entire Districts could be killed off. By agreeing to protect Katniss in the arena, she’d basically signed herself up for any kind of interrogation that came afterward.  _Fuck_. This was going to be a long day.

A man entered the the cell. Johanna didn’t recognize him; he had a hard-looking face, and a professional attire. The guy didn’t exactly look like a sicko, but with Snow’s threats, she doubted he had anything pleasant in store. He was silent as he fumbled with the machines behind her.

” _Mister President_  probably didn’t mention to you how useless this is going to be,” Johanna spoke up, turning her head to the side in an attempt to face the man, “It doesn’t matter if I know anything or not. I’m not sharing jack shit.”

The back of the chair was too high for her to get a proper look at what was behind her, and the straps on her wrists and ankles kept her from standing up. All she heard was mystery man’s cold, dry-sounding voice in response. “That’s your opinion.” He all but mumbled when he spoke. As he rattled with the equipment, he gave a long pause. “I believe that I can convince you otherwise.”

There was a flick of a switch, and the room was filled with buzzing; loud, incessant buzzing that drew so close to her. Then, it came upon her, prickling against her scalp, running down her head. Johanna watched with dread as flakes of her once shoulder-length hair fluttered in front of her. She struggled against the restraints, her words nothing short of vulgar protests. “What are you doing?” she snarled, trying to lean away from the buzzing, “Stop that!” This resulted in a hand reaching forward, shoving the back of her head against the back of the chair. She was held down for the rest of the duration. Dark chunks of hair, some with hints of red, fell all around her. Onto the floor. Into her lap. Over her face. She fought against the inevitable, opening her mouth to let loose more profanity. Because of this, she even had to spit out pieces of her own hair. It was everywhere. It was terrible.

Buzzing. The sound didn’t stop until the deed was done, and Johanna felt the cold air brush over her freshly bald head. Had the room suddenly become colder? Not that it mattered. She was beyond pissed, beyond  _terrified_  of what could possibly follow. Johanna looked around the cell—it was bright, somewhat roomy. She couldn’t see what was going on behind her. Silence filled the room. Honestly, she had no thing to say. She was startled, if not humiliated. Though, losing her hair became the very least of her concerns as Snow’s smug, old face holographically appeared before her. His voice sounded over an intercom. “Johanna,” As he spoke, the man who shaved her attached something to her head. “I’m going to give you another opportunity to tell me everything.”

She couldn’t tell what was stuck to her, but she had a general idea. Simply thinking about what would happen put her on edge. In spite of being cleaned up by a prep team, she was already sweating again.

"Tell me what you know, and spare yourself the trouble."

Provided Snow was telling the truth, Johanna  _could_  spare herself the trouble. She could spare herself the pain, and the impending torture that would likely follow. She could walk out of the Capitol, untouched, save for her horrible new  _'haircut'_. The Districts would burn and crash, and she would be deemed a traitor. Everything that everyone in the resistance had worked for would be ultimately ruined. Was that worth sparing herself the trouble? Hell no, it wasn’t. Nothing was worth throwing everything away. She wasn’t so selfish that she’d let the deaths of her friends and family members, not to mention those of every losing tribute, be in vain.

If they tortured her, so be it. If she died in this cell, she would take her secrets with her to the grave. Her death would be a final  _fuck you_  to the entire Capitol. Considering how few reasons she had to live, it would work out, either way. At that moment, she promised herself she would not give in. She wouldn’t let loose a single rebellion secret. The bastards responsible for ruining her life would never get the satisfaction of knowing.

Johanna’s eyes were aflame with both determination and the purest form of hatred. “How about I t _ell you_  to go screw yourself.”

That was when the buzzing returned, and the electricity began to pulse through her. Her entire body seized with the sudden pain it inflicted on her, filling the room with cries of pain. She clenched her jaw, trying to brave it. Honestly, she wasn’t sure if she could. As this happened, Snow’s dreadful voice continued.

"Do you remember the last time you refused to cooperate with me?" He sounded distorted. Faded. When Johanna tried to spit an insult in response, her words only came out as agonized wails. The only thing that really made sense was Snow’s laughter, which didn’t need language to be understood. More of his blurred words followed. "You have to understand that I don’t intend to let you go unpunished for your crimes against the Capitol."

It took a lot of fighting against her clattering teeth for Johanna to produce a single-worded response. “No!” She shrieked, jerking against the straps that so tightly confined her. The skin under the belts was already fading into a reddish color. The electricity was so overwhelming. Don’t give in. Don’t give in. She couldn’t give in. She couldn’t see straight. She couldn’t stop herself from yelping. She couldn’t stand this.

"Turn it up." The President commanded, and her torturer obeyed. The buzzing grew louder. Johanna’s pain grew sharper, disorientation taking over any clear thoughts. She was seeing flashing lights. Her entire body felt as if it were on fire. Her figure shook more violently, her voice raising in volume. "N-no," she called out, "Stop!"

It didn’t stop until several minutes passed. Was it minutes? Or, was it only seconds? Measuring time was the last thing she cared about. She wanted out,  _now_ , but she knew that it just wasn’t realistic. There was no way in Hell she’d take the easy way out of this. That simply wouldn’t be worth it.

"Yes? Something you want to share with us?"

Johanna was silent, dealing with the spinning sensation in her sight. Her entire body ached, but above all, her head ached. It stung, first from the shave, and even more from the electrocution. She kept her eyes closed, panting heavily. Moments passed before she finally glared up at the holograph. Snow must have been getting so much pleasure out of this. That thought in itself doubled her revulsion. It took an intimidating glare from the man who tortured her for her to finally speak up. “ _I’m…_ " She still shook, in spite of the machines being turned off, and when she replied, her tone came out less aggressive than intended. "I-I’m not t-telling you anything!"

In spite of the pain she was in, Johanna kept her eyes focused on the monitor, her loathsome stare not ceasing for a moment. There was a pause, and the entire cell grew quiet. Even the President said nothing. That was, until he gave some sort of nodding signal, and the professional-looking sadist grabbed her by the jaw. He forced her mouth open with his fingers and shoved a mouthpiece between her teeth. When she tried to spit it out, she got a sharp slap to the face. The electricity returned. Her tremors were far more harsh. Her entire body was in agony. If her brain wasn’t fried at that point, it probably would’ve been soon.

The second round of electricity lasted longer than the first. The mouthpiece kept her from biting off her own tongue—which, in itself, was fucking ironic, given the Capitol’s tendency to mutilate tongues. It had airflow, though, and it did nothing to hinder her miserable cries. When that terrible, terrible round stopped, it was sudden and without any indication of its end. The flow of the electricity came to a halt. Johanna still writhed in pain. She didn’t want to think about what her body had done during the seizures.

When the torturer took out the mouthpiece, she said nothing. Perhaps this was because she didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of her response. Maybe it was because she was too drained of energy to manage more than another scowl. Either way, Snow gave the parting words.

"Have a good night, Miss Mason."

The hologram vanished, and the torturer walked out of the room without giving so much as a glance at Johanna. The room was silent, save for the sound of her ragged breathing, rhythmic and harsh. Her throat stung from so many loud vocalizations, her head throbbed as she tried to grasp the current situation. Consciousness was hard to hold onto, but the bright fluorescent lights above kept her awake.

Aside from her horrible dizziness and seizing, Johanna was no less herself. That was to say, she was already miserable, but enraged as ever. The Capitol had no right to do this to her. They had no right to do  _anything_  they did. There was something vastly fucking wrong with a country that needed a rebellion, in the first place. Shit. Wherever the hell Katniss was, she better have been alive. This all had to mean  _something_. As it was, Johanna’s memories of rebellion secrets were beginning to get a bit hazy. Those weren’t the only thoughts of hers that were.

To make matters worse, the lights never went out. Hours flew by, and the light stayed on, never even bothering to flicker or die out. Telling time was out of the question, now that she was vaguely curious about it. Johanna spent a while staring at the wall, and what felt like an hour or so attempting to wiggle free from the chair. It was hard, and uncomfortable, much like the rest of the torture cell. Trying to get loose did nothing. After another go at failing to break free, she sighed in defeat, propping her head against the back of the chair. She closed her eyes, taking in the reality of the scene. This was it. Everything was downhill from there. Currently, she was far too tired to start devising an escape plan. So, Johanna sat in silence and soreness. Perhaps her dreams would have mercy on her tonight.

It felt like forever before Johanna was able to doze off. Sleep had just begun to take her into nightmares that were, surprisingly, more pleasant than her interrogation. At least there were no electrodes in her subconscious. Her dreams would be the only escape from what was ahead. They were a little less horrible, and she could accept that.

Then, the noise started, and Johanna was torn from her drowse. It started with voices in the cell beside her, and it grew in volume, turning into cries lower in pitch than her own.

Even in the night, there was no solace. For, after Johanna’s own cacophony of horror began the screams of Peeta Mellark.


	2. Drenching

Sleep did not find Johanna on her first night of Capitol detainment. Instead, the late hours were filled with glaringly bright lights, sneaking hunger pains, and  _Peeta_. His cell had to have been very close to hers; in fact, when Johanna looked toward the direction of the noise, she saw something similar to a vent. It was probably a mechanism designed to screw with prisoners psychologically—to let them hear one another’s screams. If so, the vent was doing its job. Every cry that rang through the vent shot a sick feeling through Johanna’s gut. On the long list of horrible ways to be kept awake, this was among the worst.

She couldn’t tell what they were doing to him, honestly. There had to have been other people in his cell, as he would occasionally be questioned about Katniss and the like. As they had done with Johanna, they asked him questions pertaining to the rebellion. As she’d suspected earlier, he truly was clueless about it all. That itself made hearing his beatings much worse. At times, it would cease, and Johanna would begin to think it was over. She would release an anxious breath, would almost doze off, until recordings of past Hunger Games blared from beside her. This lasted for a number of hours.

Eventually, it came to an end. The recorded audio of Games that poured through the vent beside her came to a halt. Johanna waited to make sure the room beside her was empty before she spoke, her voice lowered to a whisper. “Peeta.” She stated his name, and then repeated it in a more questioning tone, “Peeta?”

There was a pause, and then Peeta replied, “Johanna?” He seemed a lot less collected than when they last saw each other in the arena, “Is… Is that you?”

"Who else would it be?" Johanna groaned, not bothering to keep her eyes open. God, she was exhausted. "How long have you been in there?"

"I…" he hesitated, stopping to catch his breath and ending on a different response, "You were screaming when they locked me up, Johanna. Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?"

Jo scoffed, shaking her head in dismay, “That’s a stupid question.” She didn’t mean for her response to come out as rough as it had. Actually, it was nice for him to ask about her condition. Peeta was the first to actually show concern for her in a long while. Any sort of kindness toward her was a rare thing. “They shocked me. Twice.” Recalling what happened actually caused her to wince, her body shuddering a bit. “It hurt like a bitch. It still does.”

Peeta sighed. “Johanna, I’m so sorry…”

"No. Stop that." She was quick to cut him off before he could go further. There was very little she hated more than being on the receiving end of pity. It wasn’t something she could take. No matter how tortured she was, she was not to be an object of anyone’s sympathy. "I know you’re trying to be nice, but don’t apologize, just…" Trailing off, trying to stop herself from overwhelming with emotion, she cleared her throat, "Don’t pity me."

Whether Peeta’s lack of a response was out of respect, or if he had nothing more to say, Johanna didn’t know. Though, she took his stillness as a cue to press forward. “What did they do to you?”

"They beat me." His response was plain and simple, his voice nothing short of bitter.

Now, that pissed Johanna off. Sure, she didn’t personally know Peeta. Maybe his love for Katniss was a bit nauseating, and his whole  _selfless_  deal could get a little annoying in excess. Even so, that didn’t mean he was a bad person. He was a good guy. Someone like him didn’t deserve to take any beatings from the Capitol. “That’s messed up.”

"That’s not all." Peeta added, his voice wavering. "Johanna, do you really think Katniss was really on our side? Do you think she might have wanted to kill us?"

Johanna let out a sigh through closed lips. She still felt awfully dizzy, and thinking in depth was more challenging than it had been prior to the electrocution. Katniss, though.  _Katniss_. Had Katniss wanted to kill them? Certainly, Johanna could recall  _little miss Everdeen_  acting quite defensive toward her. It wasn’t as if the younger girl’s defensiveness was unexpected, though; at the time, Johanna was far too impatient and furious to bother with manners. That was a time where Johanna thought she would meet her own demise soon, anyways. Would Katniss have any interest in turning against Peeta, though? Not that Johanna knew of. As far as she could tell, those two had done nothing but suck on each other’s faces, flaunting their romantic act all over the place. That was gross, but it didn’t exactly seem like reason for betrayal.

"Debatable." Johanna furrowed her eyebrows, which had fortunately been spared when her hair was taken from her. "I can see her wanting to kill  _me_ , but  _you_? Not likely. She seemed more interested in keeping you alive than putting an arrow in you.”

After the words escaped her, Johanna was startled by the opening of her cell door. Jumping up with widened eyes, she was instinctually ready to fight. If only she could. Her hands balled into fists, her muscles tensing. In spite of how sore and aching she was, she wanted nothing more than to defend herself, to get out of the capitol. This was indicated in the intense glare she gave to her torturer. As he walked in, he was accompanied by someone else. His companion was a spectacled woman, standing inches taller than him, looking to be in her late thirties. She smiled at Johanna, though the expression on her face had no sincerity.

Johanna’s gaze fell upon the woman, and it remained for a matter of seconds. She did not return the smile. “Who’s this?”

Her torturer from the previous day spoke in the same grumbly voice he’d used earlier. “Meet Miss Larimar. She’s here to handle you.”

Handle? Johanna paused, gazing at the woman with confusion in her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Her voice came out low, distrustful. Given the previous night’s events, she doubted  _handling_ could mean anything pleasant. When the older woman approached, Johanna flinched, raising her voice. “Back off! “

"So, you’re the one with the temper?" Larimar spoke firmly as she bent over, getting a better look at Johanna and meeting her gaze. She didn’t stop smiling. It made Johanna rather uncomfortable. "I’ve been assigned to manage what happens during your stay in the Capitol. It’s nice to meet you."

There was no way Johanna would put an ounce of her trust in this woman. Not after last night. Not after everything the Capitol had done to her in the past, even before capturing her. Her sleep deprivation and general ill feeling made an attitude hard to keep up, but she still managed to go through with a sarcastic remark. “Oh,  _joy_.” She didn’t want to be  _managed_ , or whatever. She just wanted to go home, or get out of the Capitol, at the very least. Was it  _that_  much to ask to live her life in peace?

"You have to understand that, by refusing to cooperate, you’re responsible for what happens to you here." Larimar continued. Johanna grew nervous when the man who tortured her—she still didn’t know his name—disappeared behind her. When she was thrown into the cell, she hadn’t gotten the opportunity to see what other sorts of things were behind the chair. For obvious reasons, she didn’t want to learn what else was there.

Johanna sneered, rolling her eyes, “Yeah, of course. I’m just  _asking_  to be interrogated! Thanks for understanding, asshole!” The moment the exclamation escaped her, she realized how terrible of an idea it was to sass her torturers. Damn it. This was going to hurt. Quickly she braced herself, awaiting the inevitable attack. Moments passed, and not a single thing happened. No strikes were made upon her. When she looked back at Larimar, the older woman only stared, the smile having left her face. The grim stare she now had did not break. Johanna didn’t say anything—she wasn’t going to apologize for being tortured.

"I’m going to need you to cooperate with me." Larimar added, her sunken grayish green eyes flickering down to Johanna’s wrist straps. "Given what I’ve heard about your…  _behavior_ , you have a tendency to lash out. Am I wrong to assume that you will attack me if I release your hands?”

Well, that wasn’t the reaction Johanna was expecting. She anticipated more pain for her outburst, not anything related to removing the straps that restrained her. Perhaps this woman wasn’t as physically violent as the other torturer. That didn’t mean she could be trusted in any way. Still, curiosity lead the Victor to respond. She questioned slowly, cautiously, “Why would you do that?”

"Like I said, I’m here to manage what happens during your stay," Larimar continued, "and I can’t very well do that while you’re sitting in one place. Can I trust you not to lash out at me when I take these off?"

"I don’t know," Johanna replied, trying to sound uninterested and nonchalant, "It depends on what I get for not  _lashing at you_.”

A grin once again grew on Larimar’s face, and it showed real amusement this time. On the contrary, words that followed were everything but comforting. “You’ll get the pleasure of not receiving another jolt from my friend over there.”

Oh, no. Not the electricity. The very mention of it perturbed Johanna deeply. Hesitantly sighing, she gave a very small nod of her head. “I guess I’ll have to do my best not to punch you in the face,  _miss Larimar_.”

Larimar turned to face the man behind the chair, nodding at him. He handed a key to her, which she promptly used to click away at Johanna’s restraints, unlocking them. It started with her ankles, and ended at her wrists. The feeling of being able to move her arms was something she’d missed. While she was tempted to use this newfound freedom to hurt everyone in the room, her physical exhaustion was far too much for her to take on two people, let alone someone as tall as the woman who’d unlocked her. Johanna rubbed her sore wrists, gawking at the red marks that had been printed onto them. It was a few moments before she suspiciously looked up at Larimar. No words escaped her, but her questioning expression was apparent.

Larimar picked up on the cue. “I’ve prepared a more adequate outfit for you than the dress you’re wearing,” she stated plainly. “You’re going to put it on, and then you will follow me. Understood?”

Johanna hated following orders, especially orders of Capitol men and women. After her Games and the punishments she’d gotten for rejecting orders, she’d hoped never to be involved with them again. Therefore, she had no interest whatsoever in agreeing to behave for this woman. Logically, however? She really,  _really_  wanted to avoid getting more electrodes attached to her. She wanted to avoid having the volts sent through her head, and through the rest of her body, as they had so very recently. So, Johanna was uncharacteristically quiet. She simply nodded her head, hoping that this minuscule ounce of trust wouldn’t be something to regret.

In no time at all, Larimar retrieved a neatly folded bodysuit, handing over to Johanna. The material of the suit felt smooth in her hands, and so oddly…  _familiar_. What was it? Something that was waterproof? Johanna was quick to pick up on the familiarity of the fabric. It was the exact same substance used for the attire in the arena. Why would she be handed  _that_? Why would they give her such an outfit? To taunt her? Her train of thought was interrupted by Larimar. “Change.”

As Johanna stood up from the stiff chair, she glanced over to the area behind where she previously sat. There was a table baring a couple of boxlike machines. The devices were covered in dials and gauges of all sorts. Next to this, there was a smaller table that held an assortment of sharp objects. Johanna couldn’t pinpoint what they were, though. Of course,  _mister sadist_  was standing there, which was the cause of Johanna’s main concern. “I’d be more comfortable if that guy wasn’t in here,” she quipped, motioning to him.

"He isn’t going anywhere, and neither are you until you put the uniform on," Larimar shook her head. "Besides, I recall you having no issue with nudity during Quarter Quell training."

Johanna’s eyes narrowed. “It’s different now. Besides, how do you even know about that?”

"You’re asking too many questions," was the warning response she received. Typical for the Capitol authorities to know things that were none of their business. "Change."

Exasperatedly, Johanna began to pull off her dress. The previously extravagant-looking garment had become victim to the less pleasant products of her body. Not that she cared. The  _fashionistas_  of the city would simply have to deal with their couture getting covered in sweat and other bodily fluids. They deserved it, anyhow. With the dress tossed to the ground, the Victor grumbly put on the snug, stretchy thing that was prepared for her. Zipping it up, she turned to face Larimar, throwing her hands in the air exaggeratedly. “Happy now?”

Larimar grinned in the same way she had earlier, which made it all the more unnerving, given the context. She turned around to unlock the cell door. Johanna watched, only breaking her gaze to eye the man who shocked her earlier. There was no possible way for her to feel at ease when he was in the vicinity. Hell, even if he hadn’t been there, she’d still feel totally uncomfortable. When the door was unlocked, Johanna switched her attention back to Larimar, who beckoned outside of the cell. “Follow me, Johanna. I’m going to take you out of this cell for a while.”

Only reluctantly did Johanna follow her lead. Her gait was slow and staggering. Now that she received a chance to move her arms freely, she was able to take note of her hands’ instability. Why was she so shaky? As she walked, she clasped her hands together before her, to steady them. Couldn’t have herself look all  _vulnerable_. “Where are we going?” She asked after a few minutes passed. “Is it somewhere with food? Or a bathroom? ‘Cause, I could really use…”

"Do you think it’s fair for you to ask questions?" Larimar interrupted Johanna before she could continue. "You refuse to answer what the President asks you, and yet your own questions do not stop."

Johanna grimaced. “Do  _you_  realize that I have basic human needs? I should at least have the right to not piss myself. Learning about the rebels isn’t exactly a living requirement.”

Larimar let out a quiet sigh. “Perhaps you do prove a point.” She appeared pensive for a moment before adding, “I’ll arrange something for you, if you continue to cooperate with me.”

A little grumble escaped Johanna’s closed lips. She wasn’t exactly  _satisfied_  with that. In fact, those  _basic human needs_  were one of the prominent factors of her pain. It was ridiculous that they hadn’t already arranged those rights for her. “Well, don’t be afraid to rush. I won’t be getting any less hungry.”

"Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Johanna?" The older woman was quick to change the subject. "Not as an interrogation point. Just for conversational purpose."

” _Conversational purpose!_ " Johanna repeated, her voice raising in pitch. "Let me get this straight: your _friend_  back there tried to fry my brains, and you’re trying to make smalltalk.  _Incredible_.” The fact that this lady was trying to win her over did nothing but creep her out. Yet, for some reason, Johanna still hadn’t attacked her yet. Why? Was it that she was grateful for being released? Not likely. There was almost always strings attached to the games they played in the Capitol. Was she afraid? Maybe. Perhaps, some part of her wanted to believe that she’d get out of this easier if she cooperated. Maybe her and Peeta would be able to leave. It was a wild idea, but it was something to hope for.

"I released you from your bindings," Larimar said, walking firmly and assuredly. "I believe it would be fair for you to share something about yourself."

"Fine," the Victor huffed, rubbing her head for the first time since it was shaved. Oh, it felt so  _weird_  to not have hair. She felt practically naked without it; more naked than she ordinarily would have, which was saying something. When she went back to talking, she did so in an exaggerated tone. “Hi, my name’s Johanna Mason! I’m from District Seven. I used to be a lumberjack, and I just got tortured for refusing another one of President Snow’s orders!  _Whoopee!_ ”

"Yes, you’re very good at stating the facts." Larimar adjusted her glasses, which were thick-rimmed and rather stylistic. She looked flashy, but compared to a lot of the city’s population, she wasn’t  _as_  garish as most. Her hair was dyed the shade of blue that tropical water might be— _bright_ —and her nails were painted the same hue. The lady looked like a walking advertisement for swimming pool supplies.

Johanna gave a halfhearted shrug. She saw absolutely no reason to go out of her way to be polite. “Well, you wanted me to tell you about myself.”

"That I did," said Larimar as she came to a halt at a set of double doors. When she swung open one of the doors, a rather dark room was revealed. "Please, enter."

Johanna couldn’t see into the room, so she had no idea what was ahead of her. As far as she was concerned, there were no plans on advancing any further. From behind, she felt someone pushing her forward, and that was when she tumbled into the ominous room, falling forward onto the solid ground. Her immediate reaction was to turn around to see who was responsible— _ugh, it was probably Larimar_ —but before she had the opportunity, the door slammed. Without a moment of hesitation, she stood from the floor and vigorously tugged on the door handles.  _Locked_. The doors were locked, and she couldn’t see a damn thing, to top it off. “Seriously?” The noise she produced was one of loud frustration. “Are you kidding me?!” Slamming on the locked door, she got no response from the other side. “You can’t just lock me in here, you…”

 _Flicker_.

Her rant was cut off by the sudden assault of light. She lifted her hands to her eyes, trying to shield them from the brightness, trying to help them adjust. When she was able to get a good look at the room she was pushed into, her stomach dropped. It was full of torture devices. Some of them were rather archaic-looking, though many were just as shiny and modern as the rest of the Capitol’s technology. Most of them were unidentifiable, but she had no real time to examine the room’s contents before she was grabbed from behind by a Peacekeeper. This was when she was brought to a long table-like platform. She refused to go down without a fight, however, and managed to effectively knee the Peacekeeper in the chest, knocking him out of her way. He had backup from others, however, and it was little time before she was chained tightly to the board. Tugging at her bindings, she found herself once again helpless.

For the record, Johanna absolutely despised being helpless, and when given the option, she avoided it at all costs. This was one time she could not avoid it, and, similar to the past night, she felt incredibly anxious. Helpless. Hopeless. Above all, she regretted not tearing Larimar to shreds when she had the freedom to do it. She’d gotten the choice, right? Or, was choice just another bullshit illusion that the people of Panem were force-fed? Her feelings of helplessness, of course, became overshadowed with the following events.

A cloth was placed over her face moments after being forced onto the uncomfortable surface. It obscured her vision, giving everything a murky grayish tint. That was when the questions began. “Johanna, are you feeling any more talkative?” Of course, it was Larimar. Who other than her? “We’ve prepared something different for you in hopes that it will be more effective.”

Johanna inhaled sharply. “Taking Snow’s place today? Is he too busy torturing Peeta to bother with me?” She really wanted that to come out spiteful and sarcastic, but it ended on a bitter note with the reminder that it probably  _was_  what Snow was doing. Torturing Peeta. Johanna thought back to his question about Katniss, and she wondered what sorts of horrors he was going through at that moment. It left her with a very,  _very_  bitter feeling.

"He has other occupations." Larimar, who was out of sight, said cooly. "I won’t be administering the punishment, but I will be here to supply questions. Why don’t we pick up where you left off yesterday?"

There was a long pause before Johanna replied, “I’d really love to know how you sleep at night. Do you regret the things you do?” When the question was asked, she got no response. Silence followed. Silence, and then water. A slow drop was poured onto her forehead. She shook her head, trying to rid herself from the cloth. A useless effort. The dampness of the cloth weighed down on her face, but it was just enough for the fabric to sink down over her eyes.

"I wouldn’t be surprised at all if nobody’s  _ever_  taught you obedience,” Larimar remarked, and it sounded as if she was taking steps closer to Johanna. It made the Victor indescribably uncomfortable. “but, I digress; Johanna, please give me the names of the rebels you were involved with.”

"No," Johanna squirmed a bit when another splash of water came in contact with her head. It was cold— _icy_ , even. “I can’t tell you that.” At her objection, more water dripped onto her forehead, and the liquid seeped into the cloth, over her face constricting her breathing. The feeling of helplessness worsened, and as Johanna tried to calm herself, more cold liquid spilled onto her.

After a few seconds, the cloth was removed. Her vision was no longer obscured, and everything was clear and ridiculously bright once again. She gasped desperately for air.  _One. Two. Three breaths_ , and then the cloth was slapped back onto her face. It stung horrendously. As the water continued, it became more relentless. Immediately, she was taken back to memories of the arena. Her fingers clung tenaciously to the Cornucopia, which spun rapidly. Endlessly. Spinning. Spinning. Drowning. Oh, god, she was drowning, wasn’t she?

Through the sound of her own choking, she could hear a vaguely familiar voice. A woman’s voice. Larimar’s voice. It was this voice that brought her back to reality—to the Capitol. “I know you may believe you’re protecting others with your sedition, but you aren’t. Try to think about how many people will get hurt when you refuse to answer our questions.”

There was no room for sarcastic or rude remarks, as Johanna felt as if she was legitimately drowning. It didn’t stop after close to a minute passed, and that was when she once again wheezed, trying to get in as much oxygen as she could. Tears involuntarily seeped from her eyes, mouth agape. Then, the cloth fell back onto her, and the cycle repeated. It was an interrogation like being punched in the nose was a walk in the park. This was the definition of torture—no, it must have been  _murder_. She was going probably to die in there. After a while, no questions were even asked; it seemed unanimous that this was all just done to torment her. The cycle kept on repeating, repeating. The torment was a success. After what felt like many hours, the cloth was taken from her face. The world faded back into her sight, and Johanna saw the same, familiar spectacled woman smiling at her.

That was when the woman took the watering device into her own hands, and she used it rob Johanna of her oxygen and consciousness.


	3. Degrading

Passing out from near suffocation brought waterlogged nightmares, unlike any Johanna had experienced before. Typically, her dreams followed a pattern. They were plagued with guilt, regret, longing and loneliness. Her dreams would often show her the faces of the children she brutally murdered. She would relive the horror of her first arena, watching the light leave the eyes of people just like her. People who simply wanted nothing more than to survive. Other times, her subconscious would taunt her, waving the fact that it was  _her_  fault that her family was dead. Snow wouldn’t have killed them if it weren’t for her. The blood of her own family, and the blood of innocent children—it was all on her hands. Her loneliness was her own fault, and she was reminded of all of this every time she slept.

This time, however, her past did not paint her dreams haunted. No, this was a whole new breed of nightmare, one that would have been entirely unfamiliar had she not experienced most recent events. Her mind brought more water, in waves, and those waves grew in size, only to swallow up everything. Amidst the wreckage, the flood called her name… “Johanna,” it cried out to her, “Johanna!”

_Wait, what?_

Why was it calling her name? Furthermore, why did its voice sound so  _memorable_? It sounded exactly like someone she knew…  _Peeta_.

Johanna awoke with a start, panicking and wheezing. Where was she? At home? No, it was not comfortable enough to be her bed. In the arena?  _No._  Her hands and feet were confined so, so tightly. She couldn’t move. Drip. Peeta’s voice carried through a vent next to her. He was yelling something at her. She couldn’t tell what he was saying.  _Drip._  Something cool was falling onto her head. Tears were falling down her cheeks.  _Drip. Drip._   ** _Drip_.**

"Johanna?" Peeta called out to her again, and finally Johanna became aware of where she was. Her eyes widened, and she fought frantically to free herself from the straps, fingernails digging into the her palms, leaving little crescent-shaped imprints into her flesh. Back in the Capitol again, strapped to that same chair, in her same cell. Her breathing constricted. There was an IV attached to her hand, in the same spot she’d been given one before.  _Something_  was getting into her bloodstream; obviously, it wasn’t a painkiller. From above, tiny droplets of water splashed onto the top of her head. No matter which way she turned her neck away from it, it always landed onto her.

Her response came out a quiet croak, “Peeta.”

Peeta didn’t sound too good, himself. His own voice had breaks in it when he spoke to Johanna. “You were crying.”

A weakened groan came from Johanna, wincing as more water hit her. After nearly suffocating, she was alive. To be honest, she wasn’t ready to be alive, and she wasn’t ready to face the rest of the day—or, whatever time it currently was. She sighed, lowering her head defeatedly, “Was I?”

"I think so," Peeta murmured. There was something about having him as a neighbor—something that was almost comforting. In a way, it felt  nice to have someone to speak with, someone to listen to. Johanna tried to keep her focus on Peeta when he continued. "I get nightmares, too. They’ve gotten worse since I got here, but… I’m not sure if they’re much worse than being awake."

Even if they couldn’t see each other, Johanna still nodded in agreement before replying. “Glad I’m not the only one.” Admittedly, she was a little embarrassed. Usually, people weren’t around to hear what she said—or,  _did_ —in her sleep. This was another thing she would have to get used to. “How are you holding up?”

"I’m having a hard time telling what’s real and what isn’t," she heard Peeta say.  _Drip_. The water didn’t stop falling onto Johanna. It was getting unnerving, but she tried to ignore it in favor of listening to the conversation. “They’ve been injecting me with something.”

"Any idea what it is?" Johanna asked, gnawing on her lower lip as she glanced over to her IV. Whatever they were giving her, it was probably different than what Peeta had. Ugly as reality was, she was still able to differentiate between what was real and was not.

There was a long bout of silence, and then Peeta added, shakily, “Tracker Jacker venom. I’m sure that’s what it is. Nothing feels right anymore.”

Peeta’s words caused Johanna to raise her eyebrows. “ _Tracker Jacker venom_ ,” she repeated, mulling it over. Tracker Jackers were used in the Games as obstacles, and still remained in the districts to torment Panem’s citizens, but she’d never heard of them being used in torture. (Then again, researching torture methods was the last thing Johanna would have ever found herself doing.) She knew that the Muttation insects were infamous for their painful and hallucinogenic venom. The thought of this, and the fact that her fellow Victor was getting tortured in this way, caused her to shudder. “That sounds as fun as getting hit by a train.”  _Drip, drop._  The liquid was quickly becoming unbearable. As another drop pattered against her, she swore lightly under her breath, “ _Damn it._ ”

"What?" asked Peeta.

"No, it’s nothing, it’s just that…" Johanna trailed off, grimacing, "they’ve got water dripping onto me. It’s like a leaky faucet, and I can’t get away from it for the life of me."

"That sounds awful," Peeta sighed. When he continued, his words raised above an  _indoor voice_ , “I can’t believe they’re just getting away with this!” There was a slamming sound from beside Johanna, and the loudness caused her to jump up in startle. She’d never heard  _angry Peeta_  before. “I…. I can’t believe nobody’s come back for us!”

Johanna did nothing to disguise the bitterness in her voice, “That makes two of us. Though, I didn’t expect  _you_  to be the pissed off one.”

A wordless, but no less frustrated growl came from Peeta’s cell. When he spoke up again—and this was not until a minute or so had passed—he sounded much more deflated. “Snow wants to turn me into his puppet. He’s trying to beat me into submission, to force me into becoming something I’m not.”

So, that’s what that  _monster_  was doing. Snow wasn’t even interrogating Peeta like he was with Johanna; he was brainwashing the kid. Turning him into a  _Capitol loyalist_. Even if she wasn’t incredibly fond of Peeta, it sickened Johanna to her very core. “I swear, if Katniss doesn’t kill him first, I’m landing an axe in his chest.” She inhaled slowly, hoping the falling water wouldn’t bore a hole into her skull. “You need to stay strong, okay? You have to fight this. Fight against the brainwashing. You are not a Capitol Mutt.”

Peeta grew quieter. “What if I become one, though? What if I lose the fight?”

"I’ll be right here," Johanna said, her gaze falling on the wall in front of her. "I’ll be here to tell you what is and isn’t real, and remind you that you  _aren’t_  Snow’s property. As long as our cells are next to each other, you won’t be alone.”

"You won’t, either," Peeta replied, "I know we haven’t known each other for very long, but I trust you."

"Thanks," a melancholy chuckle escaped Johanna, "Who would’ve known that it would take torture for someone to finally give a rat’s ass about me?"

When Peeta started to speak, his words were unintelligible and interrupted by the sound of a cell door swinging open. Instinctively, Johanna turned to face her own door, only to see that it was still in its place. Struggling could be heard to the side, Peeta’s protesting audible amongst the struggles. After a minute, the noise died down, and his door could be heard closing with a loud slam.

"Peeta?" Johanna called out, "Are you there?"

No answer.  _Drip._  The water didn’t stop falling onto her.  _Drip._  It didn’t fucking stop. It never ended. She was in a deal of physical pain, and Peeta was now missing. Again, Johanna swore under her breath, wishing to know what took place outside of her tiny, isolated cell. It was beyond screwed up that Snow planned on  _using_  Peeta. That miserable excuse for a President was just so  _keen_  on ruining everyone’s lives, wasn’t he? Nevertheless, Johanna was determined to wait for Peeta’s return. Time passed, and during the while that Peeta was gone, she could still feel the cold wetness hitting her. If the repetition hadn’t already caused her to lose hold of her sanity, it certainly would soon. It felt like ages before the door of her own cell swung open. Johanna was met with the familiar face of a tall, aqua-haired woman. Simply gazing upon her made the Victor feel nauseous. Behind the woman stood a group of heavy-framed Peacekeepers. A very forced smile was on the older female’s face. It wasn’t any less bothersome to look at.

The outburst could’ve been caused by bottled-up rage. Or, perhaps it was simply spawned by snapping due to the repetitious water leakage. Regardless, Johanna was instantly aggressive. “Where the hell is Peeta?! ” No response to her demand was given. “You’re  _real_  lucky I’m tied up!” She practically growled at when the woman stepped in the room, putting her hands on Johanna’s bound ones. Her entire body was trembling with a dreadful combination of panic and indignation, face contorted into something fierce. “B-because, if I wasn’t, I’d… I’d fucking  _end_  you!”

"So unruly, this one is," Larimar shook her head, disappointedly, as if she were referring to a misbehaving child. The condescension sent a fresh wave of hatred through Johanna. Larimar seemed not to care, and her attention turned toward the Peacekeepers who accompanied her. "Take miss Mason out of here. We need to get her ready for the public addresses."

Johanna drew in an unsteady breath as the Peacekeeper approached her, heavily armed from head to toe, their boots clunking against the solid floor below. Larimar let go of Johanna’s hands, sauntering off to the side to watch the Peacekeepers do their job. All Johanna could manage toward her and the hefty guards was a glare, but she hoped it would show her wholehearted disdain. It was getting a little difficult to convey her rage, with the state she was in. The Peacekeepers were rough when they grasped her body, holding her down and allowing Larimar to step back in and fiddle with the chair’s bindings. A visceral grumble was emitted from the back of Johanna’s throat as the woman did so. “Why are you doing this?” She paused for a moment to chew on the inside of her cheek. “Are you taking me back to get  _waterboarded_  again?”

"Actually," as Larimar spoke, she finished working with one of the cuffs. Johanna felt relief only for a moment, but her freed hand was soon forced down by the strong hold of a Peacekeeper. Larimar payed no mind to the struggle, resuming her place in the conversation. "There’s been a change of plans. You’re going to be recorded for national television broadcasts."

Johanna cleared her throat, purposefully loud. “Right, because my last  _television appearance_  went so well.”

A sharp stinging sensation shot through Johanna’s arm as the IV was ripped from her flesh. She felt a twinge of perturbation when her gaze fell upon the leaking blood. In the sick way that she behaved, Larimar gave little notice to Johanna’s pain. “That just means that this one will go  _fantastically_ ,” she drawled, standing from her leaning position, ordering the Peacekeepers through the door. Obediently, they forced Johanna to stand, following into the prison’s hallway. Her legs felt sore as she stumbled through the halls, most of her weight being supported by the white-suited guards. Now that she wasn’t leaning against the hardened headrest of the  _torture chair_ , she found it difficult to keep her head up without supports. She felt so drained, and it had only been little more than a day since her entering the Capitol. The thought of her situation worsening made her feel more than nauseous, so she quickly pushed it away, leaving those ideas for another time.

The room she was practically thrust into was bright, filled with mirrors and makeup, almost like that of a theatrical dressing room. Everything in the Capitol possessed no shortage of glaringly bright, flashy things. She was assigned stylists, a group of three, and immediately upon entering the room, a cuff was locked around her left wrist. Her glance up at Larimar—the one who attached said cuff—was both questioning and distrustful. “What’s this thing?”

"Insurance," Larimar replied, turning toward the exit, "Call it insurance." With that, she ordered the Peacekeepers to let go of Johanna. They promptly released their hold on her arms, leaving the bruising girl free once again. Her hands were unbound again, and with this, a window of opportunity opened. She used this opportunity to charge at Larimar, but before she could step more than a couple of feet, the cuff around her wrist activated. An acute pain surged through her arm, the current causing her hand to uncontrollably spasm. With a yelp of pain, she fell to her knees, clutching her arm, which did not still even after the current turned off.

Inhaling and exhaling sharply through bared teeth, she gave a mortified look up at the woman. “Y-you’re…” she was shaky as she spoke, “a sick motherfucker. You know that, right?” This earned another shock from her wrist, causing a high whimper to erupt from her. The electricity wasn’t as intense as it was during torture, but it was enough to put her in a state of incapacitation.

Larimar looked down at her with no remorse, shaking her head disapprovingly. “It’s a shame you aren’t willing to cooperate with the Capitol, Johanna. Impolite as you are, your cleverness and insight could truly benefit our effort.”

"Spare your double-edged compliments," Johanna rasped, still using her free hand to clutch the injured one. "I still won’t tell you anything."

The vibrantly blue-haired woman rose her shoulders into a little shrug, waving a dismissive hand. “Very well, then. I suppose we’ll have to deal with your insubordination later on.” Then, she departed, leaving Johanna alone with the unfamiliar trio.

They weren’t a friendly bunch, that was for certain. It seemed the talkative, flashy prep teams and stylists were saved for Hunger Games tributes. These ones were quiet, not vibrantly colored in any way, and rather unfriendly. Johanna was told to hold still, and warned that any lack of compliance would result in getting another electric shock. Begrudgingly so, she held still as they stripped her bare. Meticulously, they worked away at her body, shaving away the rest of her hair. Something about the whole routine felt so goddamn  _degrading_. It wasn’t necessarily the fact that she was naked during most of it; nudity wasn’t a big deal for her, and she was never the prudish type. No, it was that they were ridding her of every hair without her consent. The people of the Capitol took her loved ones, her sense of security, her wellbeing, her body, her hair. There was barely anything left she could call her own, and yet they continued to degrade her.

Her body was covered in makeup that gave her skin a falsely vibrant sheen. It did a good job concealing her bruises, covering her from head to toe. The people assigned to do her makeup fitted her into a pearly white dress, covering her baldness with an already-styled blonde wig. When the dressing-up was complete and her unclean scent was masked with expensive perfumes, she was ushered into an open, clean-looking room. Said room was filled with Peacekeepers. In the middle of the room was a large throne, empty, and beside it stood a weak-willed looking Peeta Mellark. His body was covered with a clean, white suit that featured a notable sharp point on the collar— _like a stinger pointing toward his neck_. He too was, presumably, covered in makeup that gave him a fresh, healthy appearance. It didn’t fool Johanna. She could tell from the tired, glazed look in his eyes that he was just as exhausted as she was.

"Hey," Johanna waved in Peeta’s attention, her voice no more than a whisper, "What did…" When one of the numerous guards in the room heard her, they pointed a gun in her direction, effectively interrupting her. Peeta directed a glance in her direction, but it was brief, almost as if he was too afraid to talk to her. In fact, he looked nothing short of terrified. Being held at gunpoint caused Johanna to keep quiet as well. She gazed emptily at the floor, no longer able to avoid the pangs of hunger that caused her to feel lightheaded. If only she had more energy, perhaps she could’ve grabbed Peeta and ran away. That probably wouldn’t have worked, anyhow, but fantasizing about it kept her occupied until the President walked in, renewing her sense of anxiety. He was also wearing a white suit, but it was more fancy, and it lacked the pointy collar. As always, he smelled like blood and roses, and when he sat in the throne the two Victors stood beside, the repulsive scent only intensified. A film crew was up ahead, ready to record and broadcast whatever message Snow was prepared to give.

"Peeta and Johanna," a man behind a camera called out, grabbing the attention of both captives, "I’m going to need you both to keep your eyes on the camera. No looking away." After exchanging a wary glance with Peeta, Johanna turned to eye the camera. Obviously, she had no interest in doing so, but _choice_  was no longer a privilege of hers.

The lights changed, and Snow began to speak. Johanna didn’t put full attention into what he was saying; honestly, it was difficult to pay attention to  _anything_  at all. What she gathered from his incessant blabbering was something about unity, about the districts being united together, and plenty of other lies that contradicted everything that actually happened outside of the Capitol. Plenty of bullshitting and bent truths to keep the shining city’s ignorant population docile. The speech lasted for a minute or so, during which Johanna did not shirk an unfriendly stare. When his speech was over, Snow gave very brief goodbyes to the Victors, and promptly waltzed out of the room. Peeta was surprisingly calm about being directed out of the glowing white room, not bothering to give Johanna so much as a glance when he left. There was a moment where Johanna was standing by herself, in a room full of around a dozen Peacekeepers, being awkwardly stared at by a film crew. She narrowed her deep brown eyes at the crew. Folding her arms, she let loose an abrasive comment, “‘The hell are you looking at?”

What a mistake. Her cuff activated again, sending lower-voltage currents into her, causing her to nearly choke on her own saliva. Their patience must have been running thin; at the point she was at, a single bit of  _back talking_  would likely put her in pain. As she recovered from the most recent jolt, she heard the sound of heels clacking against the ground. Looking up, she saw Larimar. Oh, her dear, sweet, sadistic goddamn  _manager_. What a delight. As the woman neared Johanna, she drew very close to the Victor. Too close. Dangerously close.

Johanna’s heart was racing. Larimar’s voice raised, “Johanna, how do you think your fellow rebels will feel once they know you’ve become united with the Capitol?”

In the time Johanna Mason spent imprisoned, she’d tolerated a lot of things. She tolerated interrogation, sleep deprivation, drowning, loads of anxiety, and humiliation. Somehow, she tolerated it. Maybe it was fear that had previously caused her not to entirely lash out, or perhaps she had been simply too tired to do what she wanted so badly to do. She was forced into obedience, forced into costume, and now falsely toted as a Capitol affiliate.

It was too much.

That was when Johanna Mason decided that she had enough.

For a moment, she was silent, the older woman was silent, the Peacekeepers were never any less silent. Everything was simply soundless. Then, Johanna snapped, and she threw herself at her  _so-called manager_ , knocking the electric cuff’s controlling mechanism out of reach. She was relentless, pinning Larimar down with her body, using what muscle mass she had left to attack her. Her fist harshly collided with Larimar’s face, getting one punch in before the cuff re-activated. It took all of the energy she had in her to fight against the pulsing electricity, elbowing the taller woman, using what body parts she could to attack. Johanna fought relentlessly until the electricity took gained control over her movement, and Larimar scurried away from beneath her. Immediately afterward, Johanna was tackled to the ground by a Peacekeeper. She received a harsh blow to her head, causing the blonde wig to become disheveled. Rolling onto her back, she struggled against the Peacekeeper who tackled her, managing to throw the heavier body off of her. As she stood up, she was grabbed from behind by another Peacekeeper. The butt end of a gun was jabbed into her torso, knocking the wind out of her. A yowl of pain escaped her as a punch was thrown at her own face, knocking her head to the side and smacking the wig off of her. The taste of fresh blood filled her mouth, and she promptly spit the crimson liquid out. “Fuck you,” She managed to sputter between panting breaths, “I’ll never become a part of Snow’s pathetic  _puppet show_ , and I am never,  ** _ever_**  going to give you any information!” A baton of some sort descended upon her head with a loud smacking noise, distorting her vision and putting her in even more pain than before. “Tell… t-tell the President that h-him and his  _lapdogs_  aren’t going to get  _shit_  out of me!”

Johanna was once again dragged, struggling and suffering, out of the filming area and into her cell. After being forced out of the dress and back into the waterproofed suit, she sat in her same restrained position in the chair. The straps that held her wrists down felt as if they were digging into her flesh, and it caused the battered young woman to cringe. She heard the sound of whirring from above, and upon looking up, saw the dripping apparatus be replaced by a set of faucets. This sight made her undescribably uncomfortable. Being aware of her recent actions lead her to a grave realization: she was in deep,  _deep_ trouble.

She hadn’t been in her cell for very long before the door opened, and in stepped a familiar, yet no less _unpleasant_  man. He was recognizable by his professional look and hardened face. Johanna still didn’t know what his name was. Perhaps she would have asked, had she not been so overcome with defiance and fear. Regardless, he wasted no time when hooking the electrodes up to her.

This time, it was different.

He did not solely attach them to her head. He placed them all over her body; some on her arms, some on her legs, a few dangerously close to her chest. Johanna’s heart was picking up pace yet again. Her first two rounds of torture had been horrid, and though she’d survived both, she was honestly petrified. In fact, the sense of terror she had building up to this one surmounted any previous feelings. She’d admit this to herself, now; she was incredibly scared. She didn’t want to be tortured, but she knew exactly what was coming to her. The mouthpiece, which had been used on her earlier, was jammed into her mouth once all of the wires were in place. Its sudden entrance made her gag, when combined with the lingering taste of blood. She held back the urge to vomit. Her heart felt as if it would beat out of her chest, breathing also picking up pace. It was coming. The electricity was coming. The torture was coming. This was her punishment for acting up—for defending herself against a woman who  _clearly_  drew enjoyment from watching Johanna’s agony.

The barrage was sudden. Freezing, salty water rained down on her, stinging her wounds and irritating her eyes, the latter of which she hadn’t closed in time before the torrent. It was so cold. Way too cold. It came through the air passageway on the mouthpiece, choking her, threatening to drown her. Breathing was a fight in itself, and she was had no option but to swallow the horrible-tasting liquid. Again, just like the waterboarding, she was drowning. Her eyes burned so badly. It didn’t end. The water kept on coming. It didn’t stop. She couldn’t protest. Her words were equivalent to garbled wails that were hardy audible over the sound of the water. She wanted desperately to fight back, to stop the water, to make it all end. It simply did not. This was her punishment. This is what she got for putting up a fight, for siding with the rebellion, for giving her life for Katniss Everdeen. This was the price to pay for pursuing freedom.

It was a long while before the water came to a halt. By that point, Johanna was almost entirely convinced that the downpour was going to kill her. Yet, it didn’t, and she was left with the brutal reminder that she was still alive. Johanna was soaking wet, covered in bruises, sore from the brawl she ultimately lost. She shivered, gasping for the oxygen that the obstruction in her mouth greatly limited. She was still alive. Still in pain. Still struggling for air. Her torturer walked from behind the machines, stepping in front of her to look Johanna in the eye. When she turned away to break the stare, and to avoid the eye contact, he grabbed her by the chin, turning her back to face him.

"Do you  _realize_  the fact that you’re never going to escape here?” he asked the former Victor, glowering at her. Johanna’s gaze faltered, focusing on the floor. She didn’t want to see him; she just wanted him to leave. She just wanted to be left alone. The former Victor was still trying to catch her breath when the man raised his voice. “Look at me!”

Her stomach twisted, unwillingly making eye contact with her torturer. Really, she didn’t understand what  _ever-loving fuck_  he expected from her, considering the fact that she could barely talk. The response she gave was a revolted scowl and a low grumble,  _"Hhhgh."_

"You’re not going to escape," he continued, letting go of her face and extending his hand to grab hold of her shoulder. He burrowed his cold, gloved fingers into her exposed skin, bringing about a pained noise from the girl. "There is absolutely no point in fighting your way out." His hold on her shoulder constricted painfully before he released it. "Nobody is looking for you, and nobody is worried that you’re here."

For some reason, the last comment stung more than it should have. He was wrong. He had to be wrong. Someone had to be worried about her. What about Finnick? Her only friend? He cared. He was probably the only one who did. Maybe Katniss was a little guilty about being responsible for Johanna’s torture. Someone had to care, right? For all she knew, and for all her torturer knew, the rebels could’ve been planning to get her and Peeta out. It was totally plausible.  _You’re wrong_ , Johanna wanted to say. Since she couldn’t say it, she kept up the hateful look in her eyes. Her emotion was certainly conveyed, as the sadistic man quickly returned to his place behind the chair. Johanna had almost forgotten about the electricity until it shot through her body once again. The saltwater that still soaked her served as an excellent conductor, and the agony that enveloped her very being was unlike any she had ever experienced.

It didn’t end.


	4. Cracking

It was in the memory of District Seven’s forests that Johanna found respite. The strong, aromatic scent of pine and the sight of towering evergreens was what truly gave her a sense of peace. She could so easily picture herself climbing one, sitting alone but feeling safe among sturdy branches. To watch the world below from the perspective of a lofty tree was to feel completely at home. There was nothing quite like the feeling of rough bark beneath her fingers, the scent of fresh sap, and the tickle of the green needles brushing against her. This was where her mind took her as she trembled uncontrollably in the confines of a Capitol torture cell.

The punishments she received for so violently disobeying the Capitol were severe. When compared to her first two times being tortured, the newest round of trauma was painful and long-lasting on an entirely new level. After a while, Johanna had become so disorientated that her mind began to travel from inside of the cell to outside, in the forests of her own District. Trees were the only thing in her life she could positively daydream about, it seemed. She had no one left at home, no one waiting to embrace her, nobody wondering where she was. The only house she had to return to was empty. Yet, amidst all of this pain and longing, she still had the trees. Even if the trees never spoke, they offered her safety. Trees never judged her, never got turned off by her hot-tempered attitude, never questioned a thing. They simply were. Nobody—not even President Snow himself—could ever take that away from her.

Even when she was younger, Johanna loved the wilderness. Before getting reaped for the Seventy-First Hunger Games, and before every horrible thing that followed, she would often spend her time outdoors. She was about six or so when she received her first axe — not just a toy, but a bona fide hatchet, just the right size for her little hands to grasp onto. Her father had been a lumberjack, and having a trusting relationship with with his daughter, he taught her how to sway and toss the hatchet about. From the moment she knew how to use the thing, she was out in the forests nearby her house, swinging around a weapon that some might consider unfit for a child.

Before she could chop down an actual tree, she still loved it out there. She would sneak out of her house at times, would climb all the way to the top of pines whenever she felt like avoiding people or playing hooky. Johanna could spend all day in the forest without a single worry. She learned about the flora and fauna of District Seven, picking out the different plants and identifying the animals in a heartbeat. During the summers, she would hear the cicadas singing, from afternoon to evening, and she would let those songs lull her into calmness. She would stay out into the late hours, watching the sun loom low, the sky turn vibrant colors. When the sun set, the open air above became a perfect canvas for glimmering stars. District Seven wasn’t necessarily rural, but a lot of it was far enough from big cities to have gorgeous night skies. Sitting in the treetops, far into the forest and far from any tall buildings, Johanna was able to get the best view.

When she lost her loved ones, the forest was all she had left to keep her company. After refusing to sell herself and become a prostitute of the Capitol, the home she returned to was replaced by ashes. Just like that, all of the people she cared about, and all of the materials she owned, were gone. She fled to the forest, not wanting to be seen by anyone, not wanting to be pitied or gawked at for her violent ways of grieving. People had a tendency to judge for things like that, but the plants never minded. The soft pine straw and leaf-covered ground below her didn’t mind that she stomped over it. The trees never judged her, never told her that crying was inappropriate, that she should have felt  _lucky_  for winning The Hunger Games. Nobody ever told her how she’d still be in the arena, even after leaving. No one mentioned how horrible the losses would be afterward. No one could console her; only the solitude and the wilderness could suffice. No matter what the Capitol did to her to ruin her life, torture her,  _break_  her — the trees still meant comfort to her. Comfort meant home.

All she wanted was to go home.

She missed the place, really. She missed the feelings, the smells, and the sights of being at home. She missed the feeling of grass beneath her feet, of the wind blowing through her hair. She missed actually having hair. She missed eating freshly cooked meals, instead of occasionally getting fed through an IV whenever she  _'behaved'_. She missed being able to call Finnick, who was the only damn person left on the planet who she wasn’t afraid to break down in front of. She missed the strong taste of alcohol and the temporary numbness it would provide. She missed being able to speak her mind without getting beaten, shocked, or nearly drowned. She missed the family and friends that once surrounded her. The list went on.

This was why Johanna took her mind away from the torture. She couldn’t stand the disgusting reality of it. Yet, even in her deepest of detachments, she still found herself shaking. No matter how hard she tried to take herself away to the sweetness of familiar thoughts, she was still locked away in a stuffy little room, strapped to a cold, hard chair. The floors were not soft and grassy, but solid and covered in drains. The air was not a fresh, lovely breeze; instead, it was stagnant, smelling like sweat, blood and other bodily odors. Johanna shook, her face covered in smudged, runny makeup that was ruined from the downpour. It stung her eyes, just as the water had. Her body was in a constant quiver, and she felt as if she could be sick at any minute. She was cold, tired, and her ears incessantly rang. Every moment, every single struggle she made shot an intense soreness through her muscles. She was alive, technically, but she wasn’t  _living_  life. She was not comforted. She was not free.

After the torture ended, which had been many hours of repeated electrocution later, the sadistic man in charge of it simply walked out of the door, leaving Johanna as she was. The electrodes were still attached to her, the ceiling was still in  _faucet-mode_ , and it occasionally dripped water onto her. The feeling of water against her skin made her uncomfortable beyond measure. They’d left the mouthpiece in. Johanna couldn’t tell if it was part of the punishment—an act of humiliation, to keep her from speaking freely—or if it was a reminder that the water and electricity could come back at any moment. Regardless, it was upsetting, and very much difficult to push out of the way.

Peeta had chimed in with his own misery about midway through her punishment. Unlike Johanna, however, he had nothing to stop him from using his words. He would repeat Katniss’ name, over and over, until his voice went sore. Sometimes, his calls for the girl sounded like despair-filled pleas. Other times, they more so resembled hostile battle cries. It was hard to tell what else went on in the next-door chamber. Hearing and smelling were the only senses of Johanna’s that weren’t limited. The recordings of Peeta’s Hunger Games would continue to play, loud and blaring; among that, she frequently heard the sound of colliding flesh, and Peeta’s suppressed whimpering. The familiar smell of blood would creep into Johanna’s nostrils, but that could have just as easily been her own as it could’ve been her neighbor’s.

Time played a key role in understanding the arena she’d recently been forced through. It was based on a clock, of course, and making the slightest mistake with calculations could result in an untimely, painful death. The whole thing was actually rather ironic when looking at her current situation. In the Capitol’s torture chambers, time was untellable. The bulbs in the ceiling above remained lit at all times, at every hour.  _Night and day_  were nothing but words, and sleep was a blessing as rare as finding diamonds. Clocks were no longer accessible or relevant. Johanna estimated she’d been in the Capitol for around three or four days, but it wasn’t easy to tell with the memory loss she experienced. The electricity had that effect on her, it seemed.

She assumed her recent memory loss was because of the multiple shocks to her head. In the time she was detained, she’d already managed to lose some remembrances; certain details about her most recent Games, certain things she’d discussed before it,  _certain rebel secrets_. Perhaps the last part of that list was for the best. It wasn’t as if she planned on sharing any secrets, anyhow. If her brain had locked up in certain areas, and those recollections were ones she could not retrieve, they’d be taken to the grave with her. She’d already signed her life away for the rebellion—did that mean she wanted to die, however? Of course not. She did not want to die  _yet_ , at the very least. She was holding onto a tiny shred of hope, and she wasn’t letting go of it just yet. Johanna wasn’t broken yet. She wasn’t in pieces. Cracked in some places, perhaps, but not yet broken—not yet  _shattered_.

She just wanted to know how long she and Peeta would be subjected to this. She wished someone would tell her how long it would take for someone to care enough to rescue them.

Peeta’s screaming came to an end, after a long while. Johanna could hear his labored panting, could recognize the tiredness in each wheezing breath. His voice was very likely raw from his own vehement misery. The poor kid had to be so tired. He did nothing to strike a conversation. As Johanna could not initiate anything, she uttered no words of greeting. The air was simply filled with the sound of the two beaten Victors’ breathing, and nothing else. There wasn’t anything to say. The only thing they could do was wait. So, they both did.

Her daydreaming wasn’t always filled with positive associations. Sometimes, Johanna’s mind would wander toward darker thoughts. Perhaps she did her best to have an uncaring demeanor in front of those she didn’t trust, but she wasn’t always overconfident. There were some things she was just plain insecure about, in fact, and being tortured only heightened her emotional vulnerabilities. The prime example, for this very moment, was her worries pertaining to her allies. What if it wasn’t just Peeta and her in the Capitol? Obviously, Snow didn’t know of Katniss’ whereabouts. He wouldn’t have interrogated Johanna over if it, had he known. What about Finnick, though? What if he’d somehow got caught up in interrogation? He kept as many secrets as Johanna did, if not more. Potentially, his punishment could have been worse than choking on water and getting zapped repetitively. He could’ve faced much worse than Johanna. The thought of her only friend being tortured only upset her further. Thinking about him being b _ruised, broken…_

 _No, no._  It was too much. Johanna quickly shook her head, mentally swearing at herself for even considering such terrible things. Finnick was probably fine. He was probably alive and well, as was Katniss and all of the other Victors. Perhaps him and Annie were even together by this point, painting their love all over District Thirteen. Those two could’ve been so delightedly embracing at the very moment. Not that Johanna was all about fawning over other people’s love, but that thought was much more positive than the previous ones. Besides, Finnick was her best friend, and he deserved to be happy. So did Annie. Neither of them deserved a fate as horrible as Johanna and Peeta. Johanna and Peeta didn’t even deserve their own fates.

…Sobs.

Johanna’s train of thought was interrupted by the sound of sobbing. Obviously, it was Peeta. He sounded so heartbroken, breath hitching and sounding all uneven. Johanna furrowed her eyebrows, hands fidgeting anxiously. She had no idea what to do. For a moment, she just sat, listening to the baker’s son from District Twelve bawl his eyes out. It didn’t feel right not to at least  _attempt_  conversation. She just had to take care of the mouthpiece. Johanna went to work at wiggling it loose. It was an uncomfortable moment, listening to Peeta cry all the while. Eventually, Johanna able to get the thing free enough to spit it out. Well, a sore jaw could now be added to the pile of aches and pains she had.

"Psst," Johanna initiated the conversation with a hissing sound, causing Peeta to frighten. She didn’t take that as a cue to stop. "Why are you crying?"

It took a moment for Peeta to gather enough composure to reply. He sniffled, replying, “Johanna, I can’t stand this.” There was a pause, and he swallowed before continuing. “They’re forcing me to lie in front of cameras, and say things I don’t want to say! I’m letting Katniss down. What if she ends up dying because of me?”

"Katniss is not going to die because of you," Johanna reassured him, "She’s the Mockingjay, remember? She’s got people tripping over their own feet to keep her alive." Katniss was probably untouchable by that point, assuming the rebels had a hold of her. They wouldn’t let their  _glorious leader_  die. Not with a rebellion potentially going on.

"What does that even mean?" Peeta burst out. "I don’t get it! People keep assuming that I know everything about the Mockingjay and the rebellion. I don’t!"

Johanna sighed. “I wish I could explain it all to you, but I think you know why that wouldn’t be such a good idea.” The Capitol had eyes and ears all over the place. As a matter of fact, they were probably listening to Johanna and Peeta’s conversation at that very moment. She wasn’t sure if she’d lost speaking rights or broken any rules by doing so, but she was beyond caring. She needed someone to talk to, after being treated the way she had.

Peeta had calmed down a bit, it seemed. “I know. I just… I hate this so much. My entire body hurts, and they haven’t fed me anything since I got here.”

"Same," Johanna replied, defeatedly, "I think I may have gotten some sort of feeding through an IV before, but… at this point, I’m beginning to think that it wasn’t actually food. Do you think they’ll let us eat sooner or later?"

"When has Panem ever cared about feeding the hungry?" Peeta remarked with a bitter note.

He wasn’t wrong, and this made Johanna scowl. “Touché. We’ve got one  _fucked up_  government.”

Peeta waited a while before speaking again. He could’ve still been crying, but it sounded a lot quieter than before. “It just makes me wonder what would have happened if Katniss hadn’t shot the forcefield.”

"To be totally honest," Johanna mused aloud, "we’d probably all be a bunch of dead bodies.  I’m about ninety-nine percent positive Snow’s goal with the Quell was to throw all of our  _kind_  under a bus. You know, so we wouldn’t get any  _bright ideas_  about resistance.”

"I just need this to be worth it in the end."

"That’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself since I got here," admitted Johanna, "that this will all have some kind of meaning. Katniss better be grateful that we’re getting tortured for her."

"I hope she’s okay," Peeta murmured, "even if my memories of her are all messed up, I still love her."

Johanna let loose a sigh. For some reason, a little part of her was disappointed that Katniss and Peeta’s love hadn’t just been an act. It was what all of the Victors had expected, truthfully. She didn’t know why their love bothered her so much. Couldn’t identify it. “I know you do.”

Their little talk was once again cut short when Johanna’s door opened, and in stepped the familiar duo who was responsible for her anguish. There was the unnamed sadistic man who seemed to know a lot about electricity, and, of course, Larimar.  _That_  piece of work. There was a cold, unfriendly look in her pale green eyes. At first glance, the woman’s makeup lead her to appear healthy, but closer examination brought attention to the slightly crooked nose. It appeared as if Johanna had done the damage she intended to, after all. The female Victor would have been rather satisfied with this discovery, had she not already been petrified.

Larimar stepped closer, wearing high-heels that clicked against the white tiles beneath. She inhospitably motioned in Johanna’s direction, but her pointy, broken nose stayed in the direction of her cruel partner. “Don’t be afraid to take your time with this one,” she told him, “Miss Mason has all of the time in the world for us.”

"You look like shit," Johanna glared up at Larimar, whose face showed not a single expression beyond contempt.

Larimar placed a freezing hand on Johanna’s head, which had begun to sprout prickly, dark little hairs. The contact immediately caused the Victor to flinch, jerking away, in spite of it not being a very rough touch. She was so, so indescribably  _nauseated_  by that woman. “I return the sentiment,” Larimar replied coolly. “Your hair is starting to grow back, Johanna.”

"Really?" Johanna closed her eyes, avoiding the sight of the horrible woman. "I couldn’t tell. I was too busy being tortured by  _fucked up Capitol people_. So strange. I wonder why!”

Larimar ran her slender, long fingers down Johanna’s head, feeling the stubs of hair and further disconcerting the nearly-bald girl. “Do you know just  _why_  we have to shave your head?” She entirely ignored Johanna’s rhetorical remark, her own query patronizing and uncaring.

"Are you afraid that I’ll try to compete with your bright blue mop?" Johanna leaned further away from the woman’s cold touch. It was as if Larimar had shaken hands with death itself. That’s how fucking cold her hands were. They were so awful. Larimar was so awful.

"Actually, it’s because of the electrical currents," Larimar added, in a manner of speaking that was far too casual for the setting. Oh, just the very mention of electrocution made Johanna’s skin crawl. "We’re using very high quantities of electricity. It’s enough to potentially set your hair on fire, incidentally. I find that to be a very  _interesting_  fact.”

As much as Johanna wanted to appear fierce and intimidating, it was pretty much impossible to. Picturing her hair getting set on fire did nothing to help. She shook her head, faltering, “I d-don’t.”

"No?" Larimar gave Johanna a little pat. "I thought you would have, considering you brought all of this upon yourself."

Johanna struggled a response. “I… I’m not…  _No_. Screw you. This is not my fault. It’s not. You’re a monster.”

"Am I, though?" Larimar lifted her cold hand away from Johanna, stepping away from the chair and toward her companion. Her tone was no less grating when she continued. "You had complete control over yourself when you decided to lunge at me. Johanna Mason, you should be  _grateful_  that you haven’t been set on fire yet.”  

From behind, the razor came to life, and the shaving routine followed. The blades felt harsh agains her injured, bruised skin, and the contact yielded a profanity from her. “Shit,” she muttered, trying to avoid the flakes of hair that resulted form it all. They were minuscule things, but getting hair in her eyes was not her goal in the long term. She felt a sharp, stinging sensation and something warm running down her, the metallic tang of blood becoming prominent in the air. “What happened to asking questions? Or, are you just torturing me for  _fun_  at this point?”

"You misunderstand," Larimar said from behind. She must’ve been the one in control of the shaving. If so, she was a less experienced hairdresser than her partner. "This has nothing to do with interrogation, Johanna. It isn’t fit that we give you  _that_  privilege yet.” Her condescending tone prevailed as she ran the razor device along Johanna’s scalp. “No, this is a punishment for what you did yesterday. This is teaching you to own up to your responsibilities.”

"I was  _defending_  myself,” Johanna corrected her, “and I really don’t need to explain that to you.” She was beyond having civil conversations with these twisted people. They weren’t worth her respect. They weren’t worth taking time to explain things.

Larimar replied frustratedly, “So be it. You’re still getting punished.”

Johanna had grown to dread the sound of buzzing. It only came to an end after Larimar freely added a few ‘accidental’ cuts to Johanna’s scalp. It stung, but Johanna gritted her teeth, doing her best not to give her torturers the satisfaction of hearing her cry. In spite of living to regret everything she’d done, Johanna was aware of how sadistic people worked. She’d found them in many places; in her own District, and, more prominently, in The Hunger Games. They derived pleasure from pain, and if she’d gotten an accurate enough read on Larimar, that was exactly how the blue-haired woman ticked. She reveled in Johanna’s misery, and Johanna didn’t want to give her that gratification.

The most dreaded part, the one she’d been anticipating from the moment Larimar and her accomplice entered, was soon to follow. The electrodes were detached and reattached to new places that weren’t quite as  _chafed_  yet. As soon as they were connected, a somewhat weak current shot through her. It gave a tingling sort of sensation, not enough to cause any extreme pain but enough to cause copious amounts of discomfort.

"You know, I work here in these parts of the Tribute Center for a job," the older woman remarked, walking up to Johanna and meeting her gaze. Johanna said nothing, just watched, disgusted by the woman in front of her. Keeping focus on the conversation, one-sided as it was, was quite the challenge. Larimar watched Johanna’s face very carefully, gauging the amount of pain the girl was in, and for the first time since coming into the cell, Larimar smiled. When she did, she did so with the most sly expression. "and, I was actually…  _technically_  not obligated to deal with you today, given the fracture you caused.” For a moment, she was very quiet, her near-delighted look fading into a beastly glare that caused her bent nose to scrunch up. “However, I decided on getting permission to stay. Just for you.” Johanna wanted to say something rude and hurtful in reaction. Really, she did, but her brain felt far too scrambled and her thoughts were barely coherent. Among that, within her was a deep desire not to humor her torturers. Her refusal to respond inspired Larimar to speak up again, loudly. “Turn it up higher.”

The severity of the electricity’s flow suddenly switched from bearable to blistering, causing the female Victor to jerk about, partially from the uncontrollable and unconscious reaction her body had, but also by caused by struggle. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t. She couldn’t. She had to be brave. She had to wait it out, to survive this without giving in. She was Johanna Mason, Victor of the Seventy-First Hunger Games, survivor Seventy-Fifth. She was a survivor. What was a little electricity? It hadn’t killed her. Not yet. Oh, but it did wound her so gravely. She fought the urge to make a sound—to go so far as to say a single word—before the machines turned up, extracting an unintentional cry of torment.

Larimar shook her head, chuckling lowly. “You’re good at façades, miss Mason. All of Panem knows that. We’ve all seen it during your games, how you feigned weakness until the last minute.” She rested her stilled hand onto Johanna’s trembling, restrained one. “In that same respect, you’re also good at masking any true signs of fear; but, I can see past that. You’re afraid.”

"N-No!" Johanna squeaked, wincing. She had always been an expert at building protective walls around her vulnerable points, but it wasn’t possible to keep those walls from crumbling once the shocks overtook her. It was humiliating, honestly.

A third person abruptly cut in before Larimar could form her next sentence. “Stop hurting her!” Immediately, Johanna recognized the anxious tone to be Peeta’s.

Larimar arched an eyebrow. “Oh, dear. It sounds like your  _friend_  is trying to step in.” She turned to face the vent, calling out to Peeta, “Mister Mellark, this conversation is none of your concern!”

"It is my concern!" Peeta demanded, "What you’re doing to Johanna is awful!" In spite of her own agony, Johanna’s attention was immediately brought to Peeta. He was defending her. She hadn’t expected that to happen at all. Though that was incredibly important, it also greatly worried Johanna. His heroism could mean bad news and bad penalties.

"I’m going to alert the authorities because of your attempts at intervening," Larimar retracted her hand from Johanna’s, shouting at Peeta. "It is not your place to speak out to anyone in this cell!"

 _No, no,_ ** _no_** _._  He was going to get in serious trouble for standing up to that twisted lady. Johanna couldn’t let it happen. “L… L-Leave Peeta o-out of this!” she exclaimed.

"What makes you think I would have any interest in heeding your commands?" Suddenly, Larimar snapped, "Do you not realize who’s in control here? Will you  _ever_  learn?”

"Stop!" Johanna screamed, tears forming in her eyes as the tremors carried on, "H-He d-didn’t do  _anyth- thing!_ ”

"He is going to own up to his responsibilities, and so are you!" Larimar slammed her fists down onto the chair’s armrests, and consequently, onto Johanna’s own restrained arms.

"Please," the words barely came out comprehensible when the female Victor grunted them out, "S… Stop!"

There was a pause, as though something major impended. For a while, it seemed like the only sounds that would ever be audible were those of Johanna’s shaking and the electric machines’ humming. Then, Larimar pursed her lips, staring down at Johanna as if she could burn a hole through her. “I like it when you beg, Johanna. Maybe I’ll show a little mercy if you apologize.”

Johanna would have froze, if she had any control over her body.  _Apologize_. Was it as simple as that? Apologizing ran the risk of humiliation and loss of dignity. There was also the possibility that Larimar would lie and end up screwing Johanna over. Keeping in mind what that horrible woman had done before, leading up to the waterboarding, it wasn’t that far-fetched of an idea. At the same time, apologizing could have saved her from the electricity, and saved Peeta from getting pulverized. Saving Peeta from a beating felt like the best road to take; too many people had already been hurt because of her, and she didn’t need him added to that list.

Besides, she was in a world of pain, and had absolutely no desire to remain that way. She just wanted this to be over. She just had to set aside her dignity and make the regrettable decision of obeying. Struggling with her words, Johanna whimpered, “I’m s-sorry!”

Larimar grinned, nodding. “That’s a good girl.”

The electricity died down, leaving Johanna a gasping and madly twitching mess. Leaning downward, she struggled to breathe properly, choking back sobs that she never wanted to let out. Not in front of these two monsters, at least. She was in shambles, frankly, but that didn’t mean she’d let her torturers see her that way.

"Do you see what happens when you follow orders?" Larimar drew closer to Johanna, detaching one of the electrodes. "You save yourself a lot of trouble."

Johanna did nothing but give a menacing look to Larimar, which the taller-standing woman simply dismissed as unthreatening. It was difficult for Johanna to handle being touched by either of her torturers, even when they were just taking the destructive things off of her. Perhaps she didn’t have the same hatred for them that she’d reserved for President Snow, but there was still a very intense amount of distaste.

"I suppose that wraps things up for now," Larimar announced, "You did a  _good_  job today, Jo.”

Johanna’s gaze immediately snapped up to her, rage suddenly fueled. “What the hell did you just call me?!”  _No._  Larimar was  _not_  allowed to call her that.

Larimar looked down at Johanna with another one of those cold, dangerous smiles that she was so great at giving. It sent fresh detestation through the Victor as she looked back at Larimar with widened eyes. “Oh, but,” Larimar tilted her head to the side, never breaking eye contact, “that’s what your family used to call you, isn’t it?” With that, her and her partner left the room, once again sealing Johanna and her thoughts into the small cell.

That  _was_  a nickname reserved for her family. It was a nickname her parents had given her, before _everything_  happened. How the fuck had Larimar found that out? How had she… How did she  _know_? It bothered Johanna more than anything else. She wanted to scream and fight and get another chance to attack that awful, awful woman. Alas, she could not. She was tied to a chair, weak, feeling practically dead from the latest punishment.

Johanna barely had time to process everything that happened before she heard Peeta’s door open, followed by the sound of footsteps. “Peeta?” she called to him, “Peeta, are you…” An audible whip cracking interrupted her. It happened again. Crack, crack…  _Crack_. It took no time at all for Johanna to realize just what was going on. They were whipping him, and the realization just mortified her. The cracks were repetitious, they kept on going. She could hear Peeta in there, suffering, struggling.

"You  ** _useless_** , unruly  _child_!” The insults yelled by the man beating Peeta were roaring enough to cause Johanna to startle. “How can you be expected to  _cooperate_  if you keep defying the rules?”  ** _Crack_**! Peeta just whimpered. It sounded as if an already-opened wound was being struck. This was happening because of Johanna. She was responsible for this. If she hadn’t attacked Larimar, if she hadn’t gotten the punishments for that, Peeta wouldn’t have interrupted it. He wouldn’t have gotten beaten for it. This was Johanna’s fault. They were hurting him because of her. It was her fault. It was  _all_  her fault. She was responsible for Peeta’s anguish, and all she could do was sit there and listen.

He was insulted, demeaned, whipped, and broken, and it was a long while before it was over. The door was slammed shut, and Peeta was left alone. Johanna wasted no time talking to him. “Why did you do that?” her voice came out much raspier than she intended. “Why did you stand up for me?”

"It isn’t right for them to do what they’re doing to you." Peeta replied through the vent, wheezing.

"Yeah, but…" It didn’t make sense to her. It didn’t make sense that he’d be so selfless toward someone he barely knew. "The… The same goes for y- _you_. You shouldn’t have stepped in like that. You don’t need to get hurt because of me. I’m not your responsibility.”

"No," Peeta’s voice was low, his breath laborious, "you’re not, but you’re my friend."

 _Friend_. Peeta considered Johanna his friend, and he was willing to interrupt her torture and face the consequences of it, instead of just letting things be. He  _cared_  about her, and for some reason, it overwhelmed Johanna with emotion. It could have been that she was simply upset about what they’d done to him. It could’ve also been because she’d grown used to being cared for by so few people—that she was legitimately surprised by people going out of their way for her. Maybe, it was both. Regardless, she could no longer hold back the sobs she had been containing. “I’m so sorry, Peeta,” she whispered, fresh tears spilling from her eyes, “This is all my fault,  _this_ … i-it’s all so  _wrong_.”

"No, Johanna," he replied, "It’s not your fault. Don’t listen to what that lady says to you. She’s the one who’s wrong."

"I t-thought so too, but…" Johanna trailed off, sniffling, "somehow, she  _knows_  things about me. She knows what my f-family called me. She knows how to pick out the things I don’t tell  _anyone_  about, and if I hadn’t tried to kill her earlier, she wouldn’t have ever called people onto you.”

Peeta paused a second before asking, “You tried to  _kill_  her?” He could have sounded impressed, had he not been so literally whipped.

"It was a  _heat of the moment_  kind of thing,” Johanna explained, still rather unsteady, “Self-defense. This wasn’t the first time she was responsible for… screwing with me.”

"That’s why she’s wrong, Johanna," Peeta swallowed, "She’s the one who’s torturing  _you_. I… I  _decided_  to step in. It was my decision.”

Johanna blinked away the tears that blurred her already-distorted vision. He was too good to her. Too kind to be reduced to nothing but a brainwashed punching bag. He really, truly did not deserve it. “You’re too good for this place, kid.”

Peeta’s sigh was a sorrowful one. “So are you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to D7Victor for a lot of the inspiration and motivation for this chapter!


	5. Reflecting

Before time was immeasurable, it flew by at a blinding speed. While her memories had already been ignited, burning away at a steady pace because of the shocks administered to her head, she could still recall the events that paved the way to the Quarter Quell. She’d been sitting at home when it happened, alone as always, with the poignant scent of alcohol on her breath. It was around the time that The Hunger Games were prepared for; by that point, it was natural to expect some sort of announcement about it. As it was the duty of a Victor, she would be chosen as a mentor, yet again–chosen to coach her District’s picked children, chosen to watch them die in the games. That’s what she was expecting, at least.

Expectations did her no good.

Her immediate reaction to President Snow’s announcement was rage; sudden, explosive, unbridled rage that caused her to let out the most frustrated scream, tossing her nearly-empty bottle against her television. The glass shattered against the screen, leaving a prominent crack in the television’s surface. A lot of the furniture in her home was victim to this furious outburst. Not that it mattered, anyhow. Since her own family’s home had been destroyed, she had been forced to live in District Seven’s Victors Village. There was no sentiment in any part of the costly mansion, nothing to remind her of family, nothing that could ever fill the void inside of her soul. She resented the place, to tell the truth, and this had all been very evident when she stormed out of the house, axe in hand, fleeing to the woods that had always welcomed her. For all that the trees had done for her, she still hacked into them, still watched the bark and dust fly like sparks from the strong trunks. It was fitting to the pattern of her existence, it seemed. Fitting that nothing of hers could be left sacred and undamaged forever. Not even the trees were spared from her wrath.

There were no tears that escaped her, through it all. The loss of all she cared for was likely responsible for the drought in her eyes. No, this time around, there was nothing but livid exclamations, pounding her fists against rough bark until her knuckles turned crimson. That day, the forests that kept her away from the outside world, echoing with the sounds of her rage. Such sounds were recognizable by the sharp chopping of an axe, as well as the sounds of her high, hoarse yells.

Johanna grew empty on the inside, losing her motivation to go though many of life’s steps. It wouldn’t be incorrect to say she considered going out into the forest to search for Nightlock. Something happened before she had the chance to, however. In the days after the announcement, the tiniest fleck of hope appeared. She received parcels from undisclosed locations, secretive messages from other Districts that spoke of a plan. It was between District Thirteen, and only a select handful of Victors. For obvious reasons, the messages were often vague, even difficult to decrypt, but upon getting a more specific note from her best friend in District Four, she knew for certain that she would involve herself.

District Thirteen was alive. A rebellion against the Capitol was in the works, and by participating in the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games, Johanna would become a part of it.

District Seven only had two remaining Victors: Johanna and Blight. There’d been a third Victor, once upon a time–a middle-aged woman who had passed away before Johanna experienced the trauma of the Arena. With that woman long gone, the small reaping pool sealed the fate of the two Victors. Blight wasn’t necessarily that close to Johanna, but she had a reasonable amount of empathy for him, as he did for her. Before they were dragged to the Capitol, they spent a brief moment of grieving together, sharing drinks and miserable words. When it came to being drawn in front of a crowd of people, however, the sole female Victor was much more vociferous about her displeasure with the circumstances.

When the duo was forced to board the Capitol train, they spent all of their time away from prying eyes and ears, discussing events of the recent future. Only in the most hushed of voices did they speak of rebellion. They were to ensure that Katniss Everdeen–the girl who volunteered for her sister, the girl on fire–survived the Arena. Katniss was to be kept alive at all costs, as she would become the face of the rebellion. It was vital.

The whole deal was all on such short notice, Johanna recalled, but then she had simply come to the conclusion that she would’ve ended up dying, anyhow. She was going into a place full of death and destruction, entering a territory filled with people who’d already been through their own version of that hell. Filled with survivors. Filled with her own kind; she could kill them, just as as they could kill her. Death via fratricide had no appeal, but death for a rebellion held all of the appeal Johanna needed.

There was never a dull moment while Johanna prepared in the Capitol. The relationship she had with her original prep team was distant and dismissive enough for her to quickly slip away from her room late at night. It was on the roof of the Training Center that she routinely met up with the other Victors who were in on the plans to rebel, and it was there that they discussed everything out of Capitol earshot. The parts of her that wanted to die soon bowed in submission to the parts of her that wanted to live and spite the President.

Then, she met the Mockingjay herself, in a glass elevator, after the parade. Seeing her in person was even better than seeing her on the television. Johanna instantly took a liking to her, and she showed this by stripping nude in front of her and the other two Victors from Twelve. What other way was there to convey that she was on Katniss’ side? That was the moment that she knew for certain which direction she’d be going. She’d be going in the direction of the girl on fire. She’d also be going back to her room without a tree costume on. ( _That_  was hardly a problem; really, she hated the outfits her stylists put her into.) The next time Johanna saw Katniss, it was in the area for training. District Seven’s lady Victor went from swinging a battle axe to butt-naked yet again, oiling up her body and eying Katniss with a teasing grin. It did nothing but turn the younger woman away from her. The lack of enthusiasm both times confirmed the rebelling Victors’ notion that Katniss was incredibly modest. Pure-minded. Probably more of a virgin than olive oil was.

Afterward, it was the interviews, and Johanna became an observer of the tacky romantic drama that Katniss was involved in. The wedding dress the District Twelve girl donned was just over the top, perhaps even nauseating Johanna a little. Then, she saw the despondent look in Katniss’ stormy grey eyes, and she knew very well that Katniss had little choice. This was Snow’s fault. It had all been his fault. This was just one of the reasons Panem needed a rebellion. Johanna could recall very clearly the words she uttered when moving to straighten that beautiful pearl necklace of Katniss’.

“Make him pay for it, okay?”

Who knew that such a simple statement could convey so much?

With the number of Victors forced into the upcoming games, it was no wonder that Johanna wasn’t the only one displeased. The others were angry, too, although they showed it in different ways. Some cried. Some made passive-aggressive statements. Others questioned the games in general. It was a real lovely _shitfest_  they all had to go through with their interviews, and Johanna didn’t hold back at all when her window of opportunity opened. Fluid as a fresh air’s breeze, her words had come out sharp and purposeful. In the end, the whole lot of resentful survivors joined hands.

Unfortunately, that not-so-subtle act of rebellion had not been enough to cancel the games, and time continued to whisk by. Before she could even blink, she was past waiting for her name to be called, past the demonstrations and past the cool feeling of air condition. Straight to the deadly, humid terrain of a jungle Arena she went.

Forging an alliance with Katniss was an incredible challenge. Apparently, the only people Katniss was willing to trust were Wiress and Beetee, from District Three, and Mags. That picky attitude of Katniss’ made everything more complicated than it had to be. Finnick had Mags covered, which meant it was Johanna’s duty to seek out the other two. According to Haymitch, that would be the only way to get on Katniss’ side. Nuts and Volts, as Johanna called the two from the technology Distrct, weren’t very difficult to get on her side. She’d been acquainted with the two of them before the Quarter Quell took place, and upon reaching them, was able to form an alliance with little dispute. For a good portion of Johanna’s time in the Arena, it was her, Blight, Nuts and Volts–all four of them, just fighting to stay alive and make it through the harsh conditions. The group managed relatively well, sticking together and often catching food when necessary. Aside from Wiress’ incessant singing of a song about a clock and a mouse, everything went decently. That was, until the sky began to rain blood upon them. Blinded by the hot, red liquid, Blight collided with the forcefield, and just like that, another person Johanna cared about was forever gone. The blood rain was awful. When it had all happened, Johanna and the other three were too busy choking on blood to properly mourn Blight’s passing. It had been nearly impossible to see. Even though days upon days had passed since that moment, and even though she was no longer in that situation, she could still remember the feeling of choking on blood. It still haunted her dreams. Even worse was the consideration that it could’ve been the blood of fallen tributes, or that of other victims of the Capitol’s cruelty. She might’ve been tasting  _real_  blood.

After then, surviving was a struggle. Beetee was injured, Blight was gone. Yet, they pushed onward. They did it for Katniss, and for the rebellion. It was what they all agreed to.

It wasn’t until one morning, much later, that Johanna was able to meet up with the others. Finnick was the first to spot her and her two blood-drenched teammates, and it was there that she found the relief of reuniting with her best friend. The two  _lovebirds_  from District Twelve followed along. Upsettingly, Mags was not part of their group. Johanna was still angry about the fact that Mags was killed off; she was a sweet, elderly woman who had done so much for Finnick. She was practically a second mother to Finnick, and was so kind to Johanna and everyone else around her, going so far as to volunteer for Annie Cresta. Mags was a hero, not someone who deserved to be thrown off to the side and fed to poisonous gas. Johanna had been quite resentful toward Katniss, feeling the girl was responsible for it, at the time. Actually, she still kind of felt that way, but knowing who the  _real_  enemy was, she still continued to be loyal to Everdeen.

There were certain things Johanna didn’t want to recall in detail about the Seventy-Fifth Games, such as the spinning cornucopia and her battles with almost drowning. That had already been terrible, though looking back at it  _now_  caused a sort of panic to form within Johanna’s chest. No thanks to what the Capitol was doing to her, she’d developed a real aversion to water, and thinking back to that particular moment didn’t help at all. It also didn’t help that the dripping continued once again, consistently hitting her with the tiniest amounts of wetness that still managed to make her skin crawl.

A lot of the other events were simply difficult to keep track of, all going by rather quickly, themselves. She could remember losing a considerable amount of sleep in that hot, jungle-like terrain. There was no denying how grateful she was to be the sort of person who could function somewhat well on low rest. Had she not been, she might’ve been entirely screwed over. Among that, she could also recall receiving parachutes with fresh bread, and a story Katniss told about canaries and coal mines. Something about the birds dying when conditions became too dangerous. The bird would die before the workers, would take one for the team. Johanna may have also said something that caused Katniss to laugh a little. Something about dividing the remaining food. It was a prideful moment for Johanna.

One of the better memories she could recollect was when Katniss stopped her from walking into the Jabberjay-infested portion of the Arena. Johanna was frustrated–no, she was  _furious_ –for everything Snow had done to involve them in that situation, for every bit of trauma he’d put all of the Victors through. After clearly expressing that fury, Johanna was ready to storm off and get a drink, when suddenly she felt a hand clasp around hers. Katniss’ hand. The younger girl warned her not to go that way, as the birds would get to her, too. She tried to spare Johanna the terror of reliving her loved ones’ screams, even in spite of the indifferences between the two of them. Even in spite of the fact that Johanna had earlier threatened to rip out Katniss’ throat. Impatient at the time, Johanna had dismissed it, stating that there was no one left that she loved. It was true, but there wasn’t an ounce of doubt that Johanna remembered the simple act of empathy. In fact, that now caused her to smile briefly, for the first time since she had been imprisoned.

Be the associations negative or positive, there was just something about that girl that made Johanna _feel_.

Then came Beetee’s plans to electrocute the enemy tributes, and Katniss and Johanna were the ones to drag that damn wire coil toward the beach. The wet sand would apparently serve as a good conductor. In a twisted, massively fucked up way, it was ironic; the water surrounding the cornucopia, the tree that doubled as a lightning rod. The drowning, the electrocution. The waterboarding, the buzzing machinery used to orchestrate her torture. It was ironic how the Capitol was using her experience with the arena to literally torture her.

…Of course, Beetee’s plan never worked, anyhow. Not when Johanna knocked Katniss to the ground with that very coil. It wasn’t as if the move was anything  _personal_ ; she had simply needed to get Katniss down in order to rip the tracker out of her arm. For the sake of the rebellion. On the off-chance that Johanna survived torture, she wondered how Katniss would react to seeing her again. She didn’t gather it would be a very trusting reunion.

Every single event lead up to where she was now. Boarding the wrong hovercraft, finding out she and Peeta still had tracking devices inside of them, being sedated, ‘negotiating’ with the President.

It had all gone by so quickly, in hindsight. Now, Johanna was just sitting alone, feeling cold, salty water drip onto her, wondering just how much longer she would have to endure it all. With every drop, she grew more anxious. Her wrists and ankles were developing blisters from the abrasive material that held them down. Struggling against them only agitated the blisters. Her bruises were ripening, and her skin was beginning to become mottled in appearance. It had to have been nearly a week since she last ate.

After Peeta received his beating and Johanna experienced her first real emotional breakdown, the two of them had spent time speaking to each other, taking comfort in each others’ voices. Their conversation had been rudely interrupted, however, when Peeta was dragged out of his cell. After his audible indications of struggling, Johanna heard nothing from his end. The only thing that permeated the silence was the  _drip, drip, drip_  of the device above her, and the  _patter, patter, patter_  of the water against her head.

Naturally, Johanna waited. It was not as if she had anything else to do. It wasn’t as if she had anything more to look forward to than Peeta’s presence in the room. Her own thoughts kept her occupied, sure, but they did not keep her company. They did not listen to her. Peeta, on the contrary, was a living being who  _could_  listen to her; in return, Johanna could listen to him. This didn’t just apply to conversation, but to their shared misery and agony as they both paid for their mutual strive for survival. Peeta would come back, Johanna told herself. She was certain of it. She simply didn’t know  _when_.

Yet, he did not, and Johanna remained in silence, counting every drop that came in contact with her, anticipating each hit with dread.  _Drip, drop, drip, drop. Tick, tock, tick tock._  Time was being drowned. Her very being was drowning. The song that Nuts sung had somehow found a way to get stuck into her head.

_Hickory, dickory, dock._

_The mouse ran up the clock._

_The clock struck one,_

_The mouse ran down,_

_Hickory, dickory, dock._

It kept repeating–the image of Wiress being murdered. Johanna remembered it so clearly. Hearing that repetitious song sung for the last time, interrupted before it could be completed. Like a canary in a coal mine, stopping its song,  _dying_  to let the workers know there was danger abound. She remembered the blood pouring from the woman’s slit-open throat, the immediate shock that filled the air. The memory played in an unending loop, and the repetition was relentless. Tick, tock, drip, drop. The dripping of fresh blood from a severed artery. The blood kept on draining, the water kept on falling, the arena kept on spinning and  _ticking and tocking_. Repetition, repetition, repetition.

Everything had its own little way of reflecting back to Johanna. The lightning, the electrodes, the tidal waves, the soaking cloth, the saltwater. It was all just bouncing back to Johanna, jeering at her, laughing at her. She was the joke. Her entire life was just a joke to  _them_ ; she saw that now. She was nothing but a plaything for Snow, entertainment for the Capitol. Something to dress up, to dress down, to poke and prod at, to remind her of her faults, to taunt and mock.  _Mocking her for siding with the Mockingjay. How ironic._

Drip, drop, drip, drop, tick, tock… Five-thousand five-hundred and thirty-two drops later, and no word from Peeta. Johanna kept waiting. Kept counting. Kept trying to shake that damned song about clocks and mice from her head. Kept trying to shake herself out of the bout of deliriousness she’d fallen into. She had to get herself together, regardless of whether or not Peeta was around to keep her company. She needed to stay strong, remember who she was, fight against the memory loss that crept around her like poisonous fog, threatening to take her into the abyss.

Suddenly, the cell door opened. Johanna kept her eyes closed, didn’t bother to look at who entered. She did not need to. The intruder was evident by the clacking of high-heels against the tiled ground. It was evident by the unsettlingly unperturbed manner of which the arrival spoke.

“I am not going to be here for very long today. I simply come bearing news,” the voice said, and the mere sound was enough to make Johanna grit her teeth.

She said nothing in response, keeping her eyes closed and letting an unenthusiastic sigh enter and escape through her nostrils. It was already obvious who her visitor was; things hadn’t gone well, the last time Johanna saw said visitor.

“Your tongue hasn’t been cut out, you know,” the intruder continued, in a lowered tone, “You should appreciate that, and use such a  _gift_  to respond when spoken to.”

The water continued to fall. Johanna flicked a tired eyelid open, managing an exhausted yet disdainful stare in Larimar’s direction. “You talk like I should be  _grateful_  for being treated less than human.”

“Oh, believe me, I could be treating you so much worse,  _Jo_ ,” Larimar drawled, dragging her long, brightly colored nails against Johanna’s bruised, burnt arm.

The tied down Victor winced when she felt the nails digging into her skin, watching with an appalled expression. She wanted so badly to pry the woman’s hand from her, to regain ownership of her own body. The fact that she couldn’t, and the fact that Larimar still used that  _name_  for Johanna entirely repulsed her. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she murmured, “Fuck you for calling me that. You have no right to.”

Larimar dug her shiny, blue nails deeper into the flesh, humming contently when it broke and blood began to seep from the site. “You live here in the Capitol, now,” she said casually, in spite of the painful hold she had on Johanna. “We practically  _are_  your family, at this point.” The words earned a loathing glare from the Victor, but she continued to speak. “I digress. I still have news to deliver, and I find you might be  _excited_  about said news.”

Johanna lowered her gaze to the floor, biting her lip to keep herself from yelping from the pain. “I’m not playing along with your manipulative bullshit,” she said, defiantly, “Not today.”

The expression on Larimar’s face was one of feigned disappointment. “Now, that’s just  _sad_.” Pulling away her  _claws_  from Johanna’s skin, she took a moment to proudly gaze at the damage she’d done. “Regardless, I’ll continue. Do you know how many of your  _friends_  are here in the Capitol?”

“Depends on what you mean by  _friends_ ,” Johanna grumbled, wincing at the new abrasion on her right arm. It was bleeding, not a lot, but it felt as if she’d been stabbed by a bunch of tiny knives. Silently, she hoped that it wouldn’t get infected.

“I’m talking  _Victors_ , miss Mason,” Larimar smiled down at Johanna, “The kind of people who you’ve been through  _thick and thin_  with, the kind of people who  _know_  what it feels like to be in the Games. Like mister Mellark, for example.”

Johanna raised an eyebrow, taking her attention away from the wound. “Yeah, I know. He gets tortured right next to me. Where is he, by the way? Did you  _kill_  him?”

“ _That_  information is classified,” Larimar wagged her finger in a taunting, condescending manner, “but, don’t worry. You’ll get to hear him screaming again soon enough. I know how much you must love being the cause of other people’s misery…”

“Go screw yourself,” Johanna interrupted.

“You would like  _that_ , wouldn’t you?” Larimar gave Johanna a pat on the shoulder, of which Johanna resistantly leaned away from. Larimar was not at all deterred by the movement. “Anyhow, my point is that Mellark isn’t the only Victor here. I simply thought you’d appreciate knowing.”

Johanna froze, suddenly feeling her inner sense of anxiety overwhelm her. “What?” No, that could not have been right. She hadn’t seen anyone other than Peeta after the Capitol hovercraft picked them up. She’d assumed it was just herself and him. “No, that’s not…” Shaking her head, she watched Larimar with suspicion. “That’s not possible.” What if it  _was_ , though? What if they’d taken Finnick, or Katniss? No, wait. Katniss didn’t have her tracker in her, anymore. Still, what if the Capitol had managed to capture someone else she considered an ally? She now stared at Larimar, and when the older woman said nothing, it prompted Johanna to ask in an uncertain voice, “Who?”

“I could tell you,” said Larimar, brushing some of her hair out of the way, “if you told me your rebel secrets, in return. Are you willing to make an exchange of information?”

“No,” Johanna answered, glowering. It wasn’t worth the death toll to give away rebel secrets. “Just tell me.”

Larimar shook her head, “Unfortunately, Johanna, that is not how it works. I’m not going to humor you for your lack of cooperation.” She paused, gazing at Johanna for a good long while before adding, “I’m sure you’ll be  _delighted_  to see her again, though.”

“What is…” There was a pause in Johanna’s speech, her words trailing off as she processed Larimar’s words.  _Her_. So, it wasn’t Finnick. Finnick didn’t go by that sort of pronoun. It definitely wasn’t Katniss. It was still someone Johanna knew, though–someone she’d seen at least once before. Another Victor that she knew, that was still alive, that was referred to as a  _her_. Enobaria? Johanna wasn’t a huge fan of her. _Annie?_

_Shit._

“Is it Annie?!” Johanna’s lethargy was overpowered by her mortified, enraged demand. “Are you fucking _torturing_  Annie Cresta?!” It really could’ve been her. Johanna didn’t want to think that it was–she wanted to believe Finnick and Annie were together, happy by that point–yet, it made too much sense. The Capitol had tormented Finnick with the screams of Jabberjays. Why wouldn’t they take it one step further? It was just like those horrible people to go beyond simulation, to make Annie Cresta’s screams a reality.

Clasping her hands together, Larimar directed a pleased smirk in Johanna’s direction. “Perhaps,” was all she said before turning to face the door. “I have something  _very_  special planned for you and mister Mellark, once he returns. You’ll see.” Before Johanna could grasp the opportunity to learn more about the terror that ensued, and about who else they were holding hostage, Larimar was gone, and the door was closed.

Larimar had made no effort to turn off the drip from above. As it had while the two of them interacted, the water still continued to torment her. There was nothing Johanna could do about it, either, other than wait for her sanity to slowly drain. Drip, drop. Tick, tock. Johanna was alone once again, and her thoughts were now occupied with this mysterious third Victor who she hoped not to be Annie. It only seemed too realistic for it to be her; they were using Peeta to torment Katniss, presumably, and they’d do the same for Annie. It upset Johanna; beyond them  _using_  the District Four girl as a pawn, Johanna was concerned for her as a person. Annie was good company to Johanna, and even if they had little in common save for the fact that they’d both survived the games, Johanna still cared for the girl. Annie didn’t deserve torture. She didn’t deserve the same fate Johanna and Peeta had.

Johanna feared what would become of the future. For Annie’s sake. For Peeta’s sake. For her own sake.


	6. Sharing

By the time Peeta returned to his cell, Johanna had counted somewhere around a few hundred thousand water drops to her head. The feeling of water against her skin absolutely repulsed her by now, though her immobility forced her to sit there, unable to escape in spite of all the struggling, with nothing to do but count. She wasn’t sure of the frequency of the drops; perhaps they were a few seconds apart, or maybe they fluctuated. Regardless, it had become a grim and intolerable method of measuring time, and it had been a  _very long time_  since she’d heard anything from Peeta. Before he’d left, the boy sounded shaken, often heavily upset. Now that he had made a comeback, he was nothing short of a  _wreck_. Hyperventilating, choking and sniveling as if he’d already been sobbing for hours. There was a noticeable difference in his voice; he sounded… changed, fluctuating between aggressive and hopeless.

“Where have you been?” Johanna didn’t sound much like herself, either; her voice was sore and unintentionally rougher than usual, likely a side effect of the way she’d been treated as of late. She couldn’t help but feel bothered by how she sounded when she spoke.

“I can’t take this anymore, Johanna,” Peeta cried, “I can’t stand this! I want out! Get me out of here!” A pounding sound could be heard from the next room, as if he were slamming his fists against something. The noise startled Johanna, causing her to inhale sharply.

“Peeta, what did they–” With another concerned attempt at asking a question, Johanna was interrupted.

“This is all her fault! Don’t you see? If it wasn’t for  _her_ , none of this would be happening! We wouldn’t be getting tortured right now, and, and…” He was stuttering, repeating words over again, “Darius and Lavinia would still be alive!”

Johanna frowned, trying to find any sort of recognition in those names. No such luck. Narrowing her eyes and tilting her head a little, she asked in a cautious voice, “ _Who_?”

“They were…” Peeta growled, “They were our Avoxes. I- I mean, they weren’t  _ours_ , we didn’t own them or anything, they were…” He was struggling with his words, that much was clear. “During the games, they served us–me and…”

“Katniss?” Johanna’s attempt to fill in the blank caused a miserable vocalization to come through Peeta’s side of the vent.

“Yeah,  _her_ ,” Peeta answered. “She’s got to be the reason that they had to  _die_  like that!”

The chances of Peeta calming down were rather low, and there seemed to be no point in attempting to reason with him.  Arguing with him seemed pretty pointless, too. “Hey,” she started, in the most steady tone of voice she could use, “What happened, Peeta? What did the Capitol do to them?”

Peeta was silent for a moment, then he spoke in a shaky, quieter voice, “They were tortured in front of me. Both of them, at the same time.” Johanna said nothing in response, her silence a signal that she was still listening. “The Peacekeepers held me down. They didn’t torture  _me_ , but they made me watch as it all happened. Not to actually interrogate them–I mean, the two of them don't… they  _didn’t_  have tongues, so they couldn’t answer to any of the demands. They just made these noises, like animals, and I- I couldn’t  _do_  anything about it!” There was another long pause, his last words a troubled, broken exclamation.

Johanna let a sigh enter and escape her sore lungs. “You don’t have to keep going, if it’s too much. You don’t have to relive…”

Peeta ignored the offer, plainly interrupting Johanna again, “No, I need to! Lately, things have been… _shiny_. I haven’t been able to tell what is and isn’t real, but I know this was. It was all too real, and I need someone to know. I don’t want their deaths to be forgotten.”

“All right,” Johanna replied, carefully, “Go on, then. I’m listening.”

“They shocked Lavinia, badly. She died once the electricity hit her too hard, but… Darius lived through it much longer than she did. They just kept cutting parts off of him. His fingers, his toes, his hands–they just kept mutilating him, piece by piece.” As he furthered his description, his voice broke. “It lasted for days before he finally died.”

 _“Oh,”_  was all Johanna was able to say, grimacing as she quietly took in the information. So, that’s what Peeta had been up to. Watching his Avoxes get tortured to death. Watching people he knew before imprisonment die in front of him. She knew from personal experience that the death of friends–hell, even acquaintances–was a horrid thing to be around. She couldn’t imagine how horrible it must’ve been to watch them get tortured and mutilated. The fact that Avoxes even existed was wrong, that the Capitol would mutilate someone’s tongue even for speaking of rebellion. What they’d done to Peeta’s Avox friends was a whole new level of cruelty. Johanna followed with quiet, empathetic words. “That's… that’s awful.”

“I knew them back in Twelve. Well, not really Lavinia, but I knew Darius. He used to be a Peacekeeper there. He was… good. More relaxed than most of them. He didn’t deserve what they did to him. Neither did she.”

“My condolences,” Johanna said, looking in the direction of Peeta’s cell, “it sounds like you’ve been through a lot these past few days.”

“I thought I’d recognized sounds coming from near my cell earlier. Voices, but not coherent ones, but I wasn’t sure if that was real. Like I said, it’s hard to tell what is, with everything they’ve been doing to me here. I just hadn’t realized it  _was_  Darius and Lavinia until I saw for myself.”

Come to think of it, Johanna could recall hearing distant screaming sounds, though she hadn’t been sure if they were Peeta, or perhaps a hallucination from sleep deprivation. Certainly, her hallucinations weren’t as bad as Peeta’s likely were, but she still felt at times as if she were hearing certain things. This was real, though, as Peeta had just confirmed it; in a very grim, depressing way, it made sense. “The Capitol’s good at taking away people you care about,” Johanna muttered, glaring at the floor. “They seem to have a thing for destroying innocence. I’m sorry you had to be a part of that.”

“Do you think the Capitol is the only one responsible for this, though?” Peeta asked, his words uncertain. “What if this is because of that  _rebellion_  people keep talking about? I talked to Snow when I first got here, and I think that’s what he was suggesting. He was warning me about what would happen if I didn’t cooperate, I think.”

Johanna scoffed. She couldn’t believe her own ears. They really  _were_  trying to brainwash him, and in the worst possible ways. “You’re really going to take  _him_  seriously?”

“I just don’t know!” cried Peeta, “Everyone expects me to know, but I don’t.”

Johanna fell silent for a moment as she contemplated her next move. If his mind was all jumbled up because of the Capitol’s mind control tactics, there might not have been much of a point in arguing with him. Telling him the truth was out of the question, too, with the possibility of their every word being traced. Perhaps a subject change was in order. She had a concern she wanted to satisfy, anyhow.  "Hey. Peeta. If my questions are too much for you to handle, you can tell me to piss off; but, did you hear anyone else, other than the Avoxes? Have you seen anyone else?“

"Like who? I saw Peacekeepers and some of the people who usually torture and interrogate me,” Peeta said bitterly.

“That’s all?” Johanna asked, furrowing her eyebrows, “not to say that  _that_  isn’t a big deal, because it definitely is, and it’s definitely fucked up, but… you didn’t see  _anyone_  other than that? No other Victors?”

“I was too busy watching Lavinia and Darius get tortured,” Peeta scoffed as if her question was just plain unbelievable. “Why would I see any other Victors? Did they take someone else?” The panic arose with his next question. “Did they take Katniss?”

Johanna found herself perplexed by Peeta’s attitude toward Katniss; just moments ago, his talk of her was aggressive, but now he sounded legitimately worried. He could have been having a hard time controlling his feelings, now that they weren’t entirely his own. Nevertheless, Johanna was quick to confirm what she knew. “No. She couldn’t possibly be in the Capitol. I don’t even think  _they_  know how to find Katniss. It’s definitely someone I’ve seen before, though. I’m thinking it’s Annie.”

“Annie Cresta? Isn’t that the girl that Mags volunteered for not long ago?”

The mention of Mags never failed to sadden Johanna, but she did what she could to shake it off for the sake of the conversation. Couldn’t have herself becoming sappier than she’d already become. “Yeah, that’s her. She’s from District Four.”

“Why would she be in the Capitol? That doesn’t make any sense.” The manner in which Peeta spoke gave Johanna the impression that he was unconvinced. “She wasn’t even in this past Arena.”

“That’s what I thought at first, but then I pieced it together,” Johanna shook her head, “Finnick loves her. She loves Finnick. Snow loves to hurt the loved ones of Victors.” He also loved to hurt the loved ones of  _rebels_ , but Johanna spared mentioning that, with the ever-present possibility of the Capitol’s open ears. “If Snow can’t torment Finnick in person, he’s going to settle for the next best thing.”

There was yet another pause before Peeta responded, as if he had to properly digest the knowledge just shared. “You think they’re torturing Annie, too?”

“I want to be in denial over it, but… it just seems all too realistic.” Johanna’s response was more of a disheartened mumble than anything. It was just like the Capitol to do something so horrid. Snow had absolutely no boundaries when it came to ruining lives. No self control. Cringing as the water continued to fall onto her, Johanna wished she could escape–wished she could flee the Capitol with Peeta and any other hostage that was being held. Oh, it would all be so much easier if things could be that way.

“Hey, Johanna?” Peeta interrupted Johanna’s train of thought before it could become anything more than a daydream.

Johanna closed her eyes, still listening, “Hm?”

“You seem to have a lot of insight on what Snow does to people. Like, you…  _understand_. Back in the Arena, when we were all in the Jabberjay section, you said something that stuck with me.”

Oh, boy. She could tell where this was going, and she did not like it at all. “What?”

“Johanna, do you really have no loved ones left?” Yep. It was the exact direction Johanna expected.  _The question_. The one she dreaded, and the one she didn’t care to delve into around others. Too many bad memories could be unearthed from such a topic.

Yet, Johanna saw no reason to abstain from the truth. There was no point in hiding it, and denying herself and others of the truth. “I don’t.”

“Did…” Peeta sounded much more cautious, as if he wanted to avoid upsetting Johanna, though his voice was still raw, “did Snow…?”

“Yeah,” Jo looked down, continuing to stare at the floor, “he did. Family, friends from Seven, even  _exes_ that I haven’t had any contact with for years. They’re all gone. Because of him. Because of…” Because of Johanna. If she’d never refused prostitution, they all could have been alive. She would’ve had to give up her body, give up her shame, but everyone could’ve still been there. If it wasn’t for her. Her loved ones had died because of her. She’d been a selfish child for not considering the consequences. “I-It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.”

“But, it  _does_  matter, Johanna,” Peeta protested, not aggressively so, but in apprehensiveness, “That’s awful, what he did to you. Do you really have nobody left?”

This was all getting too depressing. Johanna cleared her throat. “Let’s not talk about this.”

“What about Finnick? You two seemed pretty close when I saw you in the Arena, and even before that, you two were together a lot.”

Bread Boy  _really_  wasn’t giving up on this topic. Johanna sighed, putting extra emphasis on the sigh in hopes of indicating that she  _really_  didn’t want to talk about the matter. “He’s sort of like a brother to me, but it’s not exactly the same thing.”

“So, he’s a loved one, in that way, right?”

Johanna wouldn’t deny that she missed Finnick, and that she’d missed him since being locked away in the Capitol. They  _were_  close. Not in a romantic, intimate way, but in another way. Platonically, sort of. Still, Johanna had no more interest in lingering on the subject. “It’s different, though. It’s different when you come home to find everyone you grew up reduced to nothing but ashes, and you realize you could’ve prevented it!” She was becoming incredibly flustered, and upon noticing this, she attempted to tone herself down. She’d already dealt with enough in the Capitol, there was no need to go unearthing what happened years before all of this. “Look, it’s nice of you to try to cheer me up, if that’s what you’re going for, but I don’t want to talk about this anymore, okay? I’m done talking about family and love. It’s all over with for me, anyways.”

“Sorry,” Peeta apologized. Johanna wasn’t entirely sure why he was so concerned about her history with family and the Capitol. Curiosity, maybe? Concern? Brainwashed attempts to extract already commonly known information from her? It didn’t make much sense. He was quick to speak up again. “Hey, did you hear that?”

Johanna opened her eyes, suspicious of the subject change. “Did I hear what?”

“It sounds like…  _footsteps_.”

Johanna listened carefully, only to find that she too heard footsteps. Distant, muted, and likely muffled from the doors between the cells, but they were unmistakable. “Damn it,” she murmured through chapped lips, “I doubt that’s anything good.” The footsteps drew closer until the sound of Peeta’s door could be heard. Then, her own door opened, and in came a pair of Peacekeepers, looking fully armed and ready. Even the mere sight of them was enough to disturb. Their boots clunked against the floor as they marched toward Johanna. One reached out to hold Johanna down, large hands pushing her against the already cramped chair in which she sat. The other worked at the chair’s restraints, quickly undoing them. Johanna’s first instinct was of self defense–to fling herself at the Peacekeepers and fight back with everything she had in her–but before she could even raise a finger, her arms were pinned behind her back, causing her to let out a pained grunt. She was forced to stand, staggering when she rose from the chair, feeling the dizziness set in as one of the Peacekeepers held her up. The other pointed a gun straight at her, ready to blow her brains out if need be. It was for this reason that she kept her mouth shut, refraining from any insults she would have otherwise thrown in the direction of her captors. Dragging her out of the cell, the Peacekeepers lead her into the brightly lit hallway.

Johanna was quick to notice Peeta, who was also accompanied by a small group of Peacekeepers. “Peeta!” She called out to him, grabbing his attention.

He had a wild, terrified look in his eyes, and he appeared much more emaciated than before. Much more damaged, physically and mentally, than he’d been when she last saw him in the Arena. He looked similar to what she imagined she must have looked like; covered in bruises, malnourished– _starved_ , even. “Look out, Johanna!” was his response, though there was no time for Johanna to dodge the gun hitting her over the back of the head. It sent stars through her vision, the dull but sudden pain disorienting her perspective. She could feel the Peacekeeper that was restraining her pushing forward, forcing her to walk, but she couldn’t. She was shaking, stumbling, not even managing to keep her senses. It didn’t matter to them. They forced both her and Peeta to walk forward. Neither of the two Victors appeared at all satisfied with the predicament. Johanna definitely didn’t look forward to seeing where it would lead.

The halls of the prison were eerily sterile, she noted as she moved through them. Considering its nature, she expected the place to appear more dangerous, vile, dirtied, blood-stained, but…  _no_. It was all so clean-looking, proving how talented the Capitol was at hiding bloodshed behind pearly gleam. As she was forced to traverse the hallway, she could have sworn she heard the faintest sound of screaming behind sealed, likely sound-proofed doors. Johanna wondered if any of the other cells were connected via vent, like her and Peeta’s were. Were there other hostages being held nearby? She wondered what went on behind the other closed doors. It could not have been anything more pleasant than what she and her neighbor had been through.

Johanna’s head was spinning, and her vision was distorted, tilting from side to side as she did her best not to pass out from exhaustion. She felt like a walking corpse. Unfortunately, she could easily guess based on experience that something much worse was around the corner. As she went further into the halls, she seemed to recognize parts of it; it was…  _familiar_.  _Too_  familiar, in fact, and just looking at the surroundings gave her a sickening feeling deep within her gut. If she truly  _did_  know these halls, then she knew the direction they were heading, and she knew what would follow. This was confirmed once the Peacekeepers pulled her and Peeta to the end of the hallway, through a familiar set of doors, and into a blindingly bright room. Torture implements filled the surrounding area, accompanied by plenty of complex and unidentifiable machinery.

She knew this place. It was the same room the waterboarding had taken place.

Then, Johanna heard her name called, in a frantic, wildly terrified voice. It wasn’t Peeta, however. No. It was higher-pitched, filled with the fresh terror of someone who didn’t know what they were doing in the torturous depths of the Capitol. It was a voice Johanna knew from before the Quarter Quell, before the uprising. Before Johanna even won her own games, even. The voice of a gentle, caring girl from the Fishing District of Panem, the girl who expressed just as much terror when she was reaped for the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games. Johanna didn’t have to look to see who it was. She already knew, and she was already beginning to fear what would follow.

“Johanna!” the girl shouted again, louder this time, “Johanna?! Is that you?!”

Struggling agains the Peacekeeper that held her arms behind her, Johanna turned to face Annie. She was only able to see the girl out of the corner of her eye–the District Four Victor was chained to the wall, looking unkempt and tired. Tears were streaming from her eyes, and horror was clear in her expression as she quivered against the chains that restrained her arms. “What’s Peeta Mellark doing here?” She cried out, eyes flickering between the two Victors. “What's…. what’s going on? What did they do to you?!”

Johanna nervously glanced between the two Peacekeepers, risking a response to the other young woman. She maneuvered herself toward Annie, trying to wriggle herself loose. “Annie, you're–” Johanna’s words came out briefly, prematurely cut off when the first of the other Peacekeeper collided with her chest, harshly knocking the wind from her. Her vision blanked, and she gasped heavily, trying to return the stolen air to her sore lungs. Before she received the opportunity to regain her composure, she felt the slam of her body against some sort of platform, experiencing the abrasive pinch of her wrists being tied down yet again. Becoming consciously aware of what she was being restrained to only made matters worse. She knew the direction  _this_  was going in, too. She wasn’t ready for it. Not again. Not ever.

She heard voices. So, so many voices. Aggressive Peacekeepers, furious Peeta, panicking Annie. They all blurred together, mixed into one tormenting mixture, until suddenly, her view became clear. The board they had secured her to was the exact one they’d used before, when they had tortured her with water and cloth. Though, now, it was tilting forward, facing Annie, who had grown quiet momentarily, likely due to shock. When Johanna looked around, she saw Peeta off to the side. The guards who had been so occupied holding Johanna down were now focused on restraining Peeta, who looked to have quite the fight left in him. Somehow. It was possible that the highjacking was responsible for such belligerence, but they eventually overpowered him, anyway.

Johanna’s eyes darted back to Annie. “Cresta!” she shouted out to her, trying to use what she could of her hand to motion to Annie. Her attempts to grab the other girl’s attention were successful. “How long have you been here?! Have they hurt you?” Speaking was no difficulty, but getting away with doing so was an entirely different story. Only seconds after she spoke up, one of the Peacekeepers swung a baton-type weapon at her, hitting her with a loud, sharp cracking noise that echoed throughout the spacious room. Everything went quiet at the sound. Annie was staring at Johanna with widened eyes, still in shock; Peeta had ceased his struggle, even a few of the Peacekeepers seemed briefly distracted. The platform Johanna was strapped to swung backwards in a graceless manner, coming to a sharp halt. It forced her into a laying position, made her unable to look at anything but the ceiling. Then, the sound of footsteps were heard once again; however, this time, they were lighter and slower than a Peacekeeper’s, and much more precise. The voice that accompanied them was ever so familiar.

“I thought arranging a gathering between the three of you might help with persuasion.” President Snow spoke in a calm-sounding voice, and Johanna was certain that the bastard must’ve had a smug look on his face. “We have another one of your  _kind_  in our custody, from District Two. However, she didn’t appear to hold any sentiment toward the three of you.”

The chains that held Annie down could be heard rattling. “Please,” Annie begged, “Don’t hurt them… Don’t hurt  _us_. It doesn’t have to be this way! We can work something better out! Something safer!”

“Why are you keeping us all here?!” Peeta roared, and his assertion was actually enough to catch Johanna by surprise. “Hasn’t there been enough bloodshed already?”

The President chuckled in a low voice. “I think you know why I…”

Before he could finish, Johanna interrupted him, making it a purpose to raise her voice, “For fuck’s sake, Snow! Those two don’t even  _know_  anything! There’s literally  **no**  point in this!”

Johanna could hear the approaching footsteps, watching as Snow sauntered closer, hovering over her restrained, bruise-covered figure. “Perhaps none of this would have happened if you’d told me about our dearest  _Mockingjay_. Still, Johanna, I think you would know the pain of being helpless while the ones you love suffer at your cost.”

She practically hissed at him in response, “You son of a bitch. What makes you think they deserve that? What makes you think  _anyone_  does?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I honestly live to see the day the light goes out of your eyes.”

“…And yet, you think  _we_ , the people of the Capitol, are the savages. It surprises me that you don’t see the hypocrisy in your own words.”

“ _Forgive me_  for pointing out how corrupt your system is,” Johanna scowled, “I guess you’ll never understand what it feels like to have your life ruined by it.”

Snow did not provide any sort of response, only giving another smug look as he stepped away from Johanna, walking out of her sight. “Today, the two of you will be putting on a show for Miss Cresta. Perhaps it will serve as a motivation for you to share any information you have.” He grew silent, and Johanna heard nothing from him. Perhaps he had already left, or perhaps he was simply waiting.

Either way, the sound of approaching boots did nothing to help.

Dread was renewed within Johanna when she felt a cloth cover her face, and immediately, she knew what was to follow. From beside her, she heard the first beating Peeta received, heard his abusers draw a pained exclamation from his lips. That’s when the water hit her. She could feel it soaking the cloth, creeping through it and onto her skin. The dreadful liquid accumulated, sending pulses of anxiety through her and causing her to fight against the restraints. They were much tighter than the ones in her cell, and struggling caused its own type of physical pain on her wrists. Hell, everything hurt. She could feel the water starting to choke her, now, and as she fought for air, she found little to satisfy her desperation and need. They were doing it again, and she was suffocating, choking on the water whenever it found its way into her airways. A loud,  _hitting against flesh_ -type sound could be heard. Though hearing was difficult in times of oxygen deprivation, Johanna was certain that Peeta was getting some sort of severe punishment as well.  _Punishment._  That wasn’t even the right term, as he hadn’t even done anything to deserve it. If anything, the Capitol’s treatment was more like abuse.

Or, well,  ** _torture_**.

Johanna was certain she would soon pass out when the water stopped, and the fabric was pulled clean off of her face. The board that held her flipped forward once again, and once her view refocused, she saw a petrified Annie. Johanna was barely able to form words before a very tall and bulky Peacekeeper stepped in the way of her view, holding a pair of instruments that vaguely resembled alligator clips. Johanna’s eyes immediately snapped toward the clips. She saw a couple of sparks fly between the instruments, saw them nearing her body. She felt the agony as the two sparking tools pressed against her flesh, sending electricity though her body and causing her to convulse. A shriek ripped through her throat, her bound body recoiling from the awful shocks. As the devices came in direct contact with her skin, she could’ve sworn she caught the stench of burning flesh. Her own skin, burning.

“Please, just stop hurting them,” Annie sobbed, out of sight. Johanna could not even look at her from behind the massive body of the Peacekeeper. They must have been doing something horrendous to Peeta, all the while; he was practically howling from whatever hell they were putting him through. “You don’t have to do this!”

There was no stopping it. Johanna could still feel the current surging through her, forcing her body to perform the most gruesome of dances. Every ounce of her body burned, and this time around, there was no self control. Nothing to stop her from crying out until her throat was sore and her voice was more hoarse than it had ever been. The table flipped back, snapping to its laying position with a harsh and sharp gesture. Johanna was pulled away from the electrical sparks, only to be met again with the soaking cloth. It covered her mouth and nose, causing her screams to be come muffled wheezes, whimpering weakly when the water took over again, threatening to steal her consciousness as it had times before. The sounds of the electrical torture tools were audible, though they were more distant. Just as audible were Peeta’s tremors and screams, writhing as they electrocuted him in a way disturbingly similar to what they’d done to Johanna. Peeta was screaming. Annie was crying. Johanna was choking. The water was falling. The electricity was buzzing.

It was all too much.

The table flipped forward again, abruptly and without any warning, after what felt like forever. The sopping wet cloth that clung to Johanna’s face slid off soon after, and she got a clear look Annie’s tear-covered face. Dear, sweet Annie, who was already incredibly traumatized by the Games. Here she was, in a terrible room with two other Victors, being forced to watch her own kind get brutally tortured. Then, there was Peeta, who Johanna turned her head toward just in time to see him getting injected with something. The President was close by, telling the boy something in a firm voice. Something about how this could have all been avoided if not for the Districts’ uprising. It absolutely infuriated Johanna–rather, it  _would have_  infuriated her, had she not been on the verge of breaking down from the severe pain and asphyxiation the Capitol inflicted upon her.

The Peacekeeper wielding the dangerous tools stepped forward, and the electricity struck Johanna again, this time on her arms. The terrifyingly excruciating sensation that went through her was unlike anything she’d ever felt. It was far wore than anything they’d done to her before; stronger than the electrodes, more  _severe_. Her skin and muscles were going through hell. She could not even properly describe the suffering, though perhaps her unconfined shrieking made known just how nightmarish it was.

Genuinely, it was worse than any nightmare.

Just barely, above her own cries, she could hear Annie’s, who was now bawling, still begging for it all to end. “Stop, stop-! Just stop it, please! I don’t have anything to tell you… I don’t  _know_  anything!”

“Are you so sure, Annie Cresta?” Snow asked, his voice distant and barely distinguishable behind all of the noise and blaring distractions. “You were awfully close to Finnick Odair, who seems to have inexplicably disappeared from the arena. Do you have any clue as to how, or why?”

“No,” was Annie’s ever so distant response, “I swear, I don’t! Finnick never told me about that!”

The blistering pain intensified, and Johanna could swear her vision was fading when the volts flowing through her came to the end, and the devices separated from her arms. Her body continued to shake and convulse even after the electricity was taken away. She couldn’t control the shaking. It was humiliating, really, to be reduced to the trembling, starved-out, weakened mess that she currently was. Now that both Annie and Peeta could see this, Johanna suddenly felt much smaller than she ever had before. It was the first time since entering the Capitol that she truly dared to consider how she must’ve looked through the eyes of others. She was no longer the muscular, fierce person she’d been in the arena; she was just a hungry, tired, terrified girl with little to lose, and little to look forward to. The reality of it mortified her.

Peeta hissed as a liquid-filled syringe was brought to his veins, and the needle penetrated his already bruised skin. Johanna watched this, and she watched Snow approach Peeta, leaning toward the restrained boy.

“This is all because of your refusal to cooperate, Peeta. Know this: the people of the rebellion are not your allies. Katniss Everdeen is not your ally. Because they have refused to give up information, Johanna Mason and Annie Cresta are not your allies. They are not your friends, nor anyone you can trust. Do you understand?”

“No!” Peeta exclaimed, grunting as one of the Peacekeepers hit him over the head. “I… I mean, y-yes…”

Johanna’s eyes widened. “D-don’t listen to h… h-him, Mellark! H-He’s w-wrong!” As believable as it was, she was still nothing short of appalled by what they were doing to Peeta. Feeding him all of the wrong information, turning him into some kind of  _evil Capitol-loyal mutt_. Even if he was just obeying for the purpose of sparing himself, it still made Johanna’s stomach churn. The penalty for her shouting out to Peeta was another electrocution, this time to an area very close to her wrist. A groan escaped her as she gritted her teeth, trying not to bite her tongue when her muscles lost control yet again. It died out as soon as Snow drew closer to her.

“Johanna,” he started, looking at the shaky Victor with the coldest of expressions, “I suggest you don’t speak unless you have something productive to say.”

When the table rotated itself back down, Johanna knew what was coming, and this time, she held her breath.  _Smack_. The soaking cloth was pressed against her face with brutal force, and there was no hesitation when the water rushed over her. She could do nothing but wait as her soaking body twitched under the heinous liquid. She had to do this. For her family that had died because of Snow. For Katniss. For the possibility that Snow  _would_  pay for it. For the rebellion, she held her breath, and she did all she could to endure the torture.

Unfortunately, going so long without breathing wasn’t a long-lasting plan, and when Johanna released the held breath, she was greeted with very little oxygen in return. She could feel herself drowning. Again. Panic formed within her.

She wasn’t ready to die. She wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet. The world was becoming a blur, and she couldn’t properly tell what was going on around her. Annie was still screaming. So was Peeta. They were both protesting. Johanna couldn’t protest. Not while she was choking. She doubted it would make much of a difference, anyhow; she had learned long ago that the Capitol didn’t care about what the people wanted. It wasn’t anything remotely close to a democracy. Freedom wasn’t a reality.

Yet.

That was why Johanna needed to hold on.

Yet, she was gagging, struggling for air, drowning in spite of any true lack of submersion. The water just kept pouring onto her face, soaking through the towel and trying to smother her. Trying, but not quite killing her. It always had to be the water, didn’t it? That was then thing they  _really_  loved to use against her, in any way they possibly could. Why?

When they took the cloth from her face again, and her airways were freed from the horrible struggle, Johanna was left gasping, exhausted. She already felt so dead. Both physically, and perhaps even mentally. Wheezing, she caught sight of the President approaching her. God, how she wanted to strangle him in that very moment. Her hands instinctively yearned to rip apart that horrible, disgusting excuse for a human being. It was a shame she was tied down.

“Since your friends are hesitant to share anything with us, perhaps you could do the honor,” he proposed, eyes and tone of voice cold as his own name ever was. “What is District Thirteen planning to do in relation to the rebellion?”

Johanna was still catching her breath, but she managed to direct a very hateful glare in Snow’s direction. “H-how do y-you… even  _know_ …” she trailed off, a loud wheeze escaping her, “How do you know Thirteen’s b-behind…  _any_  of this?”

“I think you might know, from some of your dearest Victors. Is that not correct?”

“I… don’t know shit about shit,” she coughed out, watching as the President split into two, trying to get a handle of the double vision she saw. Everything looked so distorted. They’d shocked her too much, probably.  _What a surprise_. “How’s that f-for an answer?”

“It isn’t helpful,” Snow shook his head. “I hope you realize that this event  _can_  go on all day. Your… _attitude_  won’t change my mind.”

“She just said she didn’t know anything!” All eyes went on Annie. Even Johanna was a bit surprised that the girl had so courageously interrupted. As surprising and incredible as bravery was, though, it did absolutely no good in the Capitol. Johanna had figured that one out pretty quickly. So had Peeta, she could infer.

“Perhaps you would like to step in and take her place, if you’re so willing to speak out,” he remarked in Annie’s direction. He sounded amused. Annie froze in her place, wide-eyed, saying nothing. The poor girl looked so afraid.

Johanna was quick to make an inquiry. “What w-would… you g-get out of t-torturing Annie, though? She… sh-she…”  _God damn it._  That fucking  _stutter_  wasn’t going away anytime soon. A permanent scowl was on her face as she tried to collect her words. Snow watched her with an almost  _patient_  look, as if he was awaiting some sort of goldmine of rebel secrets to pop out of Johanna. “She’s n-not  _in_  on it.”

“Oh?” the vile old man grinned at Johanna, and she could smell the putridity in his breath when he inclined his head toward her. Like fresh roses, soaked in  _blood_. “What makes you think that?”

Shit. Had she revealed too much? She probably had. That wasn’t a good sign at all. “I’m not saying a-anymore. Just that… Just t-that Annie isn't… isn’t a part of it. I’m done… Go away.” Maybe him knowing wouldn’t be a terrible thing. Maybe he’d go easier on Annie, knowing that she was innocent. Perhaps he would let her keep her hair and wellbeing, and… whatever fragments of sanity the poor girl had left after this. Maybe. All Johanna knew was that she  _really_  didn’t want Annie Cresta to get hurt. Or tortured. Or killed. Or  _worse_.

Snow raised a bushy eyebrow at her response. “That’s no way to talk to royalty.”

As if she could ever treat someone who’d murdered all of her loved ones with  _respect_. As if she could ** _ever_**  treat someone who took joy in watching children die on a regular basis with  _a single goddamn iota of respect_. He wasn’t fit for a leader in any respect. Johanna had nothing to look forward to, no one to come home to, and very few people who genuinely cared about her. As much as Johanna could blame herself for this, she knew deep down that this was  _all_  Snow’s fault. There was no way in hell she’d regard him as someone worth any respect.

“I’m n-not saying anything a-about it anymore,” Johanna glowered, still shaking as she spoke, her voice scratchy from the screaming she’d done. “Y-you want to t-torture  _me_? Fine. I-I’ve got all of the time in the world. N-nothing to lose.  _Them_ , on the other hand, well… I hope their agony haunts you in your dreams.” As she spoke, Snow simply stared, his face unreadable. She only continued, “Y-you’re a coward who’s so a-afraid of losing that you p-prey on the innocent. G-go… go to Hell.”

Snow sighed deeply, shaking his head slowly as he walked away. His voice was barely discernible over the uproar in the room between the other Victors. “You’re very bold, miss Mason. I’ll see to it that you get an appropriate punishment for such behavior.” With those words, he was gone.

For the remaining duration of the torture session, Johanna could only dreadfully daydream of just what that  _punishment_  implied.

* * *

 

Snow wasn’t lying when he had stated that the torture could’ve went on all day. It did, and while he had become nothing more than a distant observer after a while, Peacekeeper interrogations continued. They continued to inject Peeta routinely, all the while barking orders and lies about the Seventy-Fourth Games at him. The ones who weren’t preoccupied with Peeta gave their full attention to Johanna, smothering her and zapping her at any time they felt appropriate. All the while, Annie was still forced to watch, entirely powerless. Entirely hopeless, and unable to control or stop the horrors going on in front of her. Seeing how badly the games had messed her up, the trauma from  _this_  was only inevitable.

No further information spilled from Johanna’s lips, no matter how hard they tried to extract it from her. By the time the final, and by far the most painful, electric shock was administered, Johanna felt entirely hollow on the inside and out. She just reached a point where she simply couldn’t think properly, and her memories and thoughts were nothing but static. She was ready to break down crying, or perhaps to pass out, though she wasn’t sure which would come first. The approach of two Peacekeepers was enough to instantly set her on edge, making her jump in her restraints, panicking. They freed her from the cuffs, but only for a moment before pinning her arms to her back. Dragging her and Peeta out of the room, she caught sight of Annie. The defeated, mortified look on the girl’s face sent sharp pangs of remorse through Johanna. She really did wish she could help. If only she had any fight left. If only it hadn’t all been shocked out of her.

“A-Annie, I’m s-sorry, I’m sorry you had t-t… to see this,” she tried to call out to the other woman. Annie took notice, but before there was time for her to reply, the Peacekeepers pulled Johanna through the doors, and back into the hallway.

She couldn’t see where Peeta was, though the sounds of his scuffling were discernible. He was weakened from he torture, no doubt. Johanna watched as they locked him into his cell, shutting the door behind them. Preparing to be locked away into her own cell again, she was surprised when the Peacekeepers pulled her past her cell door next to Peeta’s.

“Hey,” she glared at one of the Peacekeepers pushing her through the halls, “you’re g-going the wrong w-way. Y-you realize that?”

“Shut up,” the other Peacekeeper answered her in a low voice. Johanna narrowed her eyes at them, wishing she could see their expressions behind those helmets. She wondered what went on in their heads, whether or not they felt any sort of guilt in their consciences. Whether they even had consciences to begin with. It was doubtable.

They pulled her through corridors unrecognizable, toward places she’d never been through before, down an elevator with no windows, and into a presumably deeper part of the cells. Ironically, it looked rather similar to what Johanna figured the area around her cell should’ve looked like; the lighting was dim, the floors were made up of cracked, dirty concrete, and as she passed by some of the windowless cell doors, she could clearly hear the sounds of someone,  _something_ , stirring. The air was cold, and it carried a rather unappealing scent. The dinginess of this place surprised Johanna; it must have been older(or, at the very least, less maintained) than the rest of the prison.

The Peacekeeper who wasn’t pinning Johanna’s arms behind her stepped forward, unlocking one a very heavy and aged-looking door. He then swung it open, motioning to his companion, “The cell’s all ready.”

Then, with very abrupt and brutal force, the Peacekeeper that held onto Johanna pushed her into the new cell, quickly locking the door behind her. She fell to the hard, cold ground, unable to catch herself in time, due to the exhaustion she was already in. As she remained on the ground, she hard the guards walking away in the distance. Her body ached more than ever, and while she was no longer tied down by anything physical, it felt as if every part of her was tethered to heavy weights. Any energy she could have put into moving around had left her quite some time ago.

So, she stayed where she was, listening to the sounds of the new prison she’d been forced into. Its ambience was rather echoey, she noted. She could hear the sound of water dripping, though.  _Oh, god, no: the water._  She shot up at the sound, eyes wide open as she frantically searched the room. Water, water, water… where was it? Where was-

 _Oh_.

Her gaze fell upon a small metal sink, complete with a rusty and deteriorated look to it. The faucet was dripping. Not on her, though. In spite of herself, and in spite of her trembling, sore muscles, Johanna pushed herself off of the ground, stumbling toward the sink. Just as she got to it, she fell forward, using the rusty appliance to catch herself. She stared at the leaky water for a moment. Drip. Drop. Not on her, but it was still a problem. She didn’t want to touch it. Reaching forward, she carefully turned the handle, silencing the sink.

_Much better._

She took a glance around the room that she was now in. It was very small, very confined. The cell was empty, other from the sink and a rather unappealing-looking, small metal toilet. There was no bed, no furnishing or anywhere for her to sit or lay. Nowhere other than the floor, of course. Johanna was in the middle of debating where to sit herself down when the familiar sound of approaching footsteps interrupted her train of thought. Suddenly, the door swung open, and in stepped a group of Peacekeepers, working together to carry a sizable hose through the door.

That was when they sprayed her with pressurized water.

That was the punishment.


	7. Waiting

Bruises covered her flesh like paint splattered on a canvas, blotchy and smeared all over her starving frame. As Johanna ran her fingers over the discolored skin, she was reintroduced to the pain that the pressurized water was responsible for. Her mind kept replaying the assault on her body; the sharp, burning liquid had hit her with such a tremendous and agonizing force. She remembered the feeling of it beating against her, pushing her to the floor and following when she tried to crawl away, the spray persistent and seemingly never-ending. The new aches were fresh on her body, covering every inch of her, and it left her in shambles as she tried to push the memories out of her head. She'd been shaking like a leaf for as long as she could remember, curled up in a ball on the floor of the lonely prison. Her unbound limbs did not steady,  _could_  not steady, in spite of her greatest efforts to still herself.

Solitary confinement. That was what the guards called it as they sauntered by her cell, confidentially whispering to each other in hushed voices. Every time she heard someone pass by her room, she felt a churning in her stomach comparable to none she'd ever experienced before. Their efforts to instill fear in her had, unfortunately, done the job quite effectively. Before her Capitol torture, Johanna wasn't sure if she'd ever been so afraid in her life. At this point, she hadn't a single clue as to what she would do with herself. Prior, no one had ever mentioned solitary confinement, and frankly, she wasn't sure what to expect. Then again, with the Capitol being what it was, she wasn't all too hopeful, nor was she surprised that it existed in the first place. The city was, after all, filled with savages.

With the stream of unpleasant thoughts whirling around in Johanna's head, replaying over and over again, she was quite motivated to escape her cage. Every part of her wanted to break free, to leave the cramped place she was confined to. Unfortunately, due to the heavy metal reinforcements of the cell, physically escaping was not an option. This didn't mean she couldn't at least  _attempt_  to run from the recent, nightmarish  _memories_ , of course. Perhaps, if she tried hard enough not to focus on the bruises, the torture, and the abuse, her mind could take her elsewhere. Somewhere…  _better_  than where she was presently.

For example, at home with her family.

She felt cold in the cell she was locked up in, though her mind was eager to steer her in an entirely different direction. Cold had not  _always_  been a bad thing, in her eyes. In fact, the Northernmost parts of Panem were known to get awfully chilly during the winter months. Having lived in the Northwestern part of Panem, exactly in District Seven, Johanna was no stranger to snow flurries and low temperatures. So clearly could she recall watching the frothy whiteness cover the treetops and the rooftops of her home town. She remembered gazing out the windows of her family's log cabin, watching the Winter with hope-filled, youthful eyes. As a child, she always took enjoyment in the cold; it meant the possibility of her getting dismissed from school, and on especially frigid days, the possibility of her parents getting days off to spend at home. The latter wasn't too often, considering the intensive labor that the working-class citizens had to endure, but before Johanna was old enough to question the government, she saw it as an opportunity to spend time with her parents. Even when she was rather small, Johanna was eager to help them out in starting up the fireplace, carrying appropriately child-sized logs and feeding them to the crackling warmth. Before fire had become a matter of life or death to her, and before it was what swallowed her family in the first place, it had been something that fascinated and comforted her. It was a sort of protection,  _safety_ , so to speak, almost akin to the way her parents had made her feel safe. On blizzard-filled nights when the weather conditions were far too harsh to work out in the forest, Johanna's mother and father would gather around the fire with her, telling all sorts of stories about family history and Seven's heroic workers. It was a safe place for her, even if all that remained were figments of this past.

As she grew older, Johanna eventually lost the status of an only child, and with a younger sibling in the house, cold seasons became even colder. Her parents took up more drudgery in order to support the family, which meant working even when the risk of frostbite was higher than ever. Though certain memories had become fuzzy, no thanks to them being, well…  _shocked_  from her brain, she still recollected the times when she had to bundle both herself and her younger sister in an array of blankets. When she was around twelve years of age, there was even a time when her and her toddler sister got snowed in. Jo was terrified, calling her parents to no answers, to no avail, not sure if they'd even found shelter in such awful conditions. When she saw the fear in her sister's eyes, however, Johanna knew that she had to be strong for her. At the very least, she had to feign strength as not to frighten the poor kid. So, she started a fire with the remaining kindling they had left. It was just enough for her sister and her, in that same fireplace her parents had gathered around many times before. She spent the rest of that time caring for her sister, ensuring that the two of them didn't freeze to death. To her relief, her parents  _did_  end up returning the following afternoon, after the snowstorm had calmed.

Now that she really thought about it, Johanna had been a rather reckless and silly child before the birth of her younger sibling. Initially, she hadn't even  _liked_  babies, much less considered the possibility of being related to one. Yet, it was tolerating, loving, and taking care of her sister that truly taught her something she needed to learn:  _responsibility_. That was something that stayed with her, throughout the years.

It was funny, really, to think about someone who had once played such a massive role in her life. The love one could share with a sibling was incomparable to any other sort of love, and seeing her sister reduced to nothing but ashes was still the most upsetting thing to Johanna. If only she could've saved her sister, as a certain  _someone_  was somehow fortunate enough to do. Perhaps things would've been different. Honestly, she missed seeing the changes in weather, and she missed feeling warmth against her body, and she missed… she…  _oh, god, her sister burned because of her_. She'd never feel the embrace of her sibling, or her parents, ever again. She could hear them in her dreams, and in the screams of Jabberjays in the arena, but as far as she reached, as hard as she tried to reach out for them, they were…  _gone_.

…and, just like that, Johanna was pulled from the glittery world of escapism and tossed back into the ugliness of reality.

Johanna felt wetness again, however, no torture devices were at fault for this. This time around, it was all on her. It was all her fault. Who the fuck was she trying to kid? She was exhausted, and she was terrified, and she  _still_  couldn't let go of the past, with even the most obscure of things reminding her of it. She was so cold, and there was nothing to keep her warm, no one left to be strong for, no one to hold. Even her fellow prisoners were far from her reach. She was terribly alone, weeping into her bruised hands and feeling her already-sore throat swell from the sobs that went through her. Everything,  _everyone_  she'd once held dear to was gone, unreachable, and even her memories of them were becoming hazier every day, from all of the electric shocks she'd been given. She couldn't remember her mother's birthday, or how tall her sister had grown before passing away, or what her father's voice ever sounded like. With the damage that had already been done, she'd eventually be unable to rely on any positive associations. Everything was fading, and with Peeta and Annie far away from the solitary confinement Johanna was locked deep within, she truly did have no one. Any self control she had before her torture was practically nullified, now. The sound of guards passing by had ceased, and with little to no souls around to hear her, she hadn't a reason  _not_  to hold back her tears. Who would care, anyway? The fame she once gained from wining the Games meant absolutely nothing now. The person she had been in the past didn't mean a thing to anyone anymore.

Her bodysuit-type garment was still damp from the water, and her face was now covered in the warm remnants of her crying. This was all so fucked, and the worst part was that Johanna could've very likely died, right there, in the Capitol. Her  _gathering_  with Annie and Peeta could've been her last interaction with anyone remotely familiar with her. They could've been the last decent people she ever saw. It had become obvious very early on that her captors weren't going to feed her. With all of the privilege the gluttonous city had, it was a wonder that they didn't bother to feed prisoners. Part of the torture, perhaps–a reminder that they were in control of downgrading her from a worshipped celebrity to a worthless, slowly dying nobody. She didn't even have anything to leave behind.

Eventually, after some time, her tears dried, and her consciousness slowly drained. She was  _tired_  - and, incredibly disappointed by the lack of a mere bed in the room. So, Johanna slept on the floor, like the  _subhuman_  that the Capitol considered her to be, laying on the uncomfortable concrete floor that she was given. Then, she drifted off into an unconsciousness vaguely akin to sleep. It was a dreamless, empty place, with nothing but a silence that still somehow managed to be unsettling. Throughout this, she had a sneaking suspicion in the back of her head that someone would come along, ready to terrorize her at any given moment. Even sleep didn't work out too well.

It was with a cold sweat that she awoke, and she was greeted with the unpleasantness of her cell. Nothing had changed; this was real, and as nightmarish as it was, she wouldn't wake up in her bed at home. Such a depressing feeling this whole place gave her; even though she'd been released from all tight physical bindings, she was still deprived of any sense of freedom. It wouldn't be wrong to say that she missed having someone to talk to, however. By now, she would've started a conversation with Peeta, could've listened to his opinions and thoughts on the situation, or checked how he was feeling. She wondered what would happen to him during the time she was gone. No doubt, the Capitol would continue their brainwashing routine on him. There was no telling how far he'd gone from being the kid he was before being held int the Capitol. It was sad, really, and it was a shame that Johanna could do absolutely nothing to help him, or  _anyone_.

Maybe she could help herself, though, by moving around, and not laying,  _uselessly,_  on the floor.

Johanna was hesitant to get herself off of the ground, to be quite honest. She hadn't exactly walked on her own for a while… well, not without being  _pushed around_  without Peacekeepers, but that hardly counted as walking on her own. She'd managed to curl herself into a ball at some point prior to this moment, and though it was tempting to stay in that position forever until she eventually  _(inevitably)_  died, it seemed like a better idea to move a little. Unwrapping her arms' tight grip around her knees, she unsteadily pushed herself up into a sitting position, taking a deep inhale of the musky air. What a repugnant smell it had to it. Using her muscles was harder now than it had ever been in the past, and the former Victor got the feeling that moving around would take some working up to. Made sense. With no food, her stomach was probably trying to eat up all of her muscles. Being tied down for days hadn't done her any favors.

Her legs were wobbly at the first attempt to stand, and she just barely caught herself before she tumbled to the cement floor.  _"Fucking pathetic,"_  was her self-deprecating mutter, just barely above a breath as she rubbed the stinging sensation from her scraped hands. "Y-you won the Games, for god's sake," Johanna told herself, lifting her heavy-feeling body up again, in spite of the ache in her hands, "you can manage this. If no one's going to take care you, you'll just have to…"  _thud_. With the first step, she was down.  _Again_. The floor itself was getting in her way of moving. Couldn't there have at  _least_  been a carpet, or something soft to fall on?

Still, she hadn't the slightest intention of giving up. There was absolutely no point in laying around all day when she  _could_  walk. She was capable of doing it, and she could do this. "You'll just have to take care of  _yourself_." It would be no different than before, right? When she had no one else to take care of, and no one to care for her, it was up to her to set things in motion.

The third time was the charm. With great effort, Johanna was able to stand herself up, her gait was unstable and wavering, but she was still capable of walking. Dizzily, she scrambled to the sink, and upon reaching her destination, she immediately clung to the old, rusting metal. It creaked as she grasped it, attempting to maintain her balance. It wasn't very sturdy, but it worked well enough.

Johanna wasn't surprised to see how grimy the old sink was. It looked as if no one had used it in a while, though there  _did_  happen to be some sort of dried residue near its drain. She couldn't tell what it was, and she had no interest in playing detective to find out. Taking a look at the area around the sink, she found that there was no mirror. This was actually sort of a relief, considering how much of a mess Johanna had to be. Her reflection was just  _unlike_  her; she didn't want to see the undernourished, hairless, water-fearing, colorfully bruised thing that  _they_  had made her into. The person she was now was nothing like her past self, even from a week or so ago. Current Johanna was simply… different. Not right. She longed to become her old self once again: the strong, fearless lumberjack's daughter with toned muscles and a readiness to take on the world. The old Johanna wouldn't have had any issues standing up. She wouldn't have cried over something so common as water.  _Water_. That wasn't even supposed to be scary, and yet, now, she was absolutely terrified of being wet. Even the idea of turning on the sink repulsed her. Such a shame that she'd become something so  _weak_ , and at the hands of the people she despised, of all the ways it could've happened.

Johanna left her place at the sink, wobbly pacing around the room. There wasn't exactly anything to do; she could mess around with the sink and see if the old thing had any use, but she wasn't particularly tempted to deal with any more water than she had to. She could go  _full-on crazy_ , as many of her kind were expected to go, and strike a conversation with herself. Though, that would not have been remotely as fulfilling as talking to, well, another  _actual person_. There wasn't anything she could use to write or draw with. Now,  _that_  was a shame. She could have used such an opportunity to draw a gigantic middle finger on the wall,  _specialized_  for anyone who visited the room to see. Doing something like that would have likely resulted in extra torture, anyhow. Probably wouldn't have been worth it, in the end, though it would have been  _something_  to make of her time. Time seemed to be all she had now, and that  **wasn't**  a good thing. It just gave her an opportunity to let her mind wander to places she did not want it to go to.

Eventually, she wandered to the toilet, sitting herself down in the same respect she would give a chair. She wouldn't call it gratitude, as the Capitol didn't ever deserve an  _ounce_  of gratefulness, but she  _would_  say that the plumbing was a minor upgrade. Having a toilet around was better than, well… having any humiliating loss of bodily control, as she may have had before. (That was something she preferred  _not_  to go in depth to think about, though. Too gross. Too embarrassing.) It was nothing compared to an actual toilet that an  _actual human being with freedom_  would use, but it was something. It also doubled as a place to sit, as was its purpose currently.

Hell, with the improvement of mobility and plumbing, solitary confinement might've been a better setup than her previous torture-specific cell. She still wouldn't call it that, though; that would've been like a starving person calling a few grimy table scraps a  _privilege_. Being able to wander around in a tiny, confined, dirty room was just like getting  _slightly less disgusting_  shit thrown at her. It was still shit, no matter what way she looked at it. No amount of optimistic disguising would ever change that.

Johanna lightly traced her fingers over her chest, feeling the bones that were gradually beginning to protrude. Wondered if her stomach had already shriveled up or withered to dust after not being fed for so long. She didn't even want to know what was going on with the rest of her organs. The last meal she had was… what, something in the arena? Bread, seafood, or whatever? Even in the arena, she remembered being hungry for the most part. Definitely not enough to hold her over for the rest of her life, and even with the water that she had  _accidentally_  swallowed, she could tell just by looking at her hands that dehydration was a very real issue. So, that could be added to the list of issues she was having. Starvation, probably some internal bleeding, and…  _dehydration_. In the real world, these would all be red flags for a trip to the hospital. If she were a regular Capitol citizen and not a rebellious Victor being punished, maybe the Capitol would've given a damn about treating her. Again, hypocrisy.

Oh, well. It just brought her back to the thought that she'd probably die, anyhow. On the bright side, if she  _did_  end up dying, Snow would be left with little to no information on the rebellion. Katniss would still have a fighting chance to lead everyone to victory, or whatever it was that Coin had planned. Things could potentially work out, even without Johanna's influence.

That was to say, if she wasn't totally torn up about Peeta. It was hard to tell how Katniss felt about him; she had looked fairly uncomfortable around him, from what Johanna had seen in Katniss' first games. Finnick was quick to speculate that the whole thing was an act, Johanna could recall. He was thinking it was Katniss' way of preserving herself, of getting sponsors and thriving. Johanna had agreed, at the time. It seemed logical enough to fake a romance in order to survive; it  _was_  the Hunger Games, after all, and people were desperate, would do anything to live through a night. Though, it seemed different when meeting them in person. The two  _star-crossed lovers_  of Twelve seemed pretty intent on macking on each other every minute during the Quell. Maybe it wasn't fake. Maybe Katniss wasn't doing well, and she was presently losing her shit with the awareness of Peeta's torture. Or detainment. Johanna had no way of telling how much Katniss new, or what Katniss was doing.

Not that Johanna would've really blamed her. She would've been upset, too, if someone she loved was still around to be tortured.

It was a shame she couldn't try to contact Katniss in some way. 'Send a postcard, or something. Say,  _"Hey, how are you doing? Me and Peeta are having a GREAT time getting brutally tortured and deprived every day!"_

Well, hopefully things weren't going  _too_  awful there. Though, it was hard for Johanna not to hope that the people of Thirteen were feeling at least a  _little_  guilty about leaving three people behind, and letting another one get taken from District Four. Real great job they were doing, not bothering to rescue everyone they threw under the bus. Maybe they were just taking their time. Waiting for the right opportunity, or whatever. They were taking way too much time.

Even so, she  _did_  wonder what would happen first, out of all of the possible outcomes. Sure, she'd already been over the idea of her own slow demise, but what else could happen? Johanna could end up staying in solitary confinement for the rest of her short-lived life, and Peeta, Annie, and  _whoever else was there_  could end up getting rescued and taken to safety. She could survive, but be presumed dead and forgotten about in the end. One could call her selfish, but she  _really_  didn't like to entertain that idea. Alternatively, in a more positive turn of events, she could end up getting out of there,  _eventually_ , and she could get rescued with the rest of them.

Maybe that wouldn't happen, though. Maybe they would all die, because Thirteen was more than capable of dropping one of their fancy nuclear weapons right onto the Capitol. That was what they supposedly manufactured, right? Graphite and nukes? They could just decimate everything and call it a day, leave the whole place a pile of melted death like things had apparently been before the Games. They could erase the Capitol. That would have been anticlimactic, but at least it would have stopped Snow from killing anyone else, and it would've put an end to the Games altogether. Well,  _possibly_.

All in all, Johanna favored the idea of surviving this and being able to escape somehow, be it by her own means or the means of a rescue. She was not sure how she would deal with the aftermath of torture; probably just nurse herself back to health, and move on with life, trauma or not. Damn, though, she really did miss eating. By now, she would be delighted to eat half her weight in  _anything_  edible. Food had never been a major issue for her, like it was in some of the poorer Districts. Before she won her games, Johanna had grown up in the lower middle class. While getting enough to eat was occasionally a concern for her family, it had never particularly been a major struggle. She used to be relatively healthy before all of this. Now, it was an entirely different story. Dinner was a luxury she could not afford. Maybe this was how people in places like Twelve felt all the time. Empty. Worrying about their next meal. Johanna wasn't sure if she would even  _get_  a next meal.

It seemed that all she could do was fantasize. About food, about socialization, about warmth, about being healthy and living to see the world outside of this hell. She could let her mind take her in any place she could… well,  _remember_ , and she could fantasize, and wait for something to happen.

So, she sat alone, in the cold, musky-smelling, quiet cell. Wondering if she would ever make it out of solitary confinement, if she would ever make it out of the Capitol alive. Wondering what would become of her in the following weeks, months,  _years_.

Wondering how the world around her was doing, wondering what would become of the rebellion she fought for.

Wondering if her torture would ever be worth it all.

and she wondered.

and she waited.

and waited.

and waited.

_...and waited._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit of a slow one, as you may have noticed. I wanted to add to Johanna's backstory a bit, as well as update on the status of her deteriorating health. Worry not, though; the upcoming chapters will have a lot more action in them. ;) Thanks for reading, and thank you so much for the feedback and comments!


	8. Resuming

“When I grow up, I want to be as good of a tree chopper as you are!” A fascinated pare of wide, brown eyes lingered on the heavy blade as it collided with the wood, over and over again in an almost rhythmic manner, sinking deeper into the bark each time it hit. The tree was a relatively thin one; a youthful spruce, small enough to wrap one’s arms around, but it was grown enough to provide a decent amount of firewood.

Setting her axe down to take a break, Johanna wiped the beads of sweat accumulating on her forehead, pushing from her eyes a few dampened tufts of dark hair. “All it takes is muscle and motivation. You know, I wasn’t a whole lot younger than you, when I got my first axe.”

The child practically wiggled in excitement, grinning widely at the older teenager. “Cool!” Sitting cross-legged on a different freshly cut tree stump, the girl couldn’t have been any older than eight years of age. Long, chestnut brown hair ran down her back, wavy and thick, her facial expression one of complete admiration. “I can’t wait to be as strong as you, Jo.”

Newly seventeen years old, Johanna was well-accustomed to dealing with lumber. It was sort of a requirement in her district, after all, and it as also important to help keep her family warm. This was especially the case, currently, in late Autumn. This was the time of year where all of the leaves upon non-evergreens turned a warm brownish orange, and the air became quite chilly at night. She had to keep plugging away at this tree until it fell, for the sake of her family’s warmth. That included her little sister, too. Johanna turned to face her sister, resting a calloused hand on the textured bark of the tree next to her. “I don’t doubt you’ll be strong, Diantha.” She winked playfully, flexing the muscle in her forearm in an exaggerated manner. “Pretty soon, you’ll be all  _buff_ , like I am. Then  _you_  can help out with firewood for the family.”

Diantha had an amused look on her small face, unable to stifle her giggling at Johanna’s silly mannerisms. “ _Super_  buff. I’ll be good at helping out the family! I’m going to be, like…  _the best_  at taking down those trees.”

Johanna’s boots crunched against the brittle pine straw floor as she walked over to her sister. She crouched next her, running a hand through the young girl’s soft hair. “The absolute  _best._ ” Closing her eyes, she inhaled a full breath of air. Even if she had work to do, this was where she felt the most peace. The air was cool and breezy, and it rustled the trees of the deep forest Johanna and her sister had walked to. Technically, she wasn’t sure if she was  _allowed_  to be so far out, (by her parents  _or_  Seven’s laws) but it didn’t seem to be too big of an issue. She knew the way home, anyhow, and she enjoyed spending time alone with her younger sibling. Diantha was one of the only people Johanna could be _herself_  around. When she was with Diantha, she didn’t need to worry about putting up any sort of tough act. The forest itself was practically her home, by this point. As she sat there, she felt a pair of warm, smaller arms wrap around her, securing her body in a hug.

“Jo, I love you.”

Of course, how could Johanna ever resist reciprocating such a gesture? She embraced her sister, lightly resting her head on her. “I love you too.” It seemed like forever that she remained in this place, holding her sibling in her arms as if the rest of the world didn’t matter. How wonderful it was to hear those three words come from someone’s mouth, anyone’s mouth, but that of her family. It was as though she hadn’t heard– _or fel_ t–anyone express love and affection to her in years.  _Strange_. Johanna hadn’t remembered feeling so far away from that warm feeling.

“Hey,” the smaller voice followed. Johanna’s eyes were still closed, not bothering to open them in fear that the warmth would go away. The voice added in a more impatient tone, “Johanna, hey.”

So, Johanna replied with her own mumble, still enjoying the embrace. “Hm?”

“Are you going to finish your work in the rain?”

Johanna stirred, bothering to lazily open her eyes.  _Rain_ … She couldn’t recall the sky ever being very cloudy. If it  _had_  been cloudy, there couldn’t have been any rainclouds showing up. “What rain?” she murmured, slowly pulling herself out of the hug. When she looked at Diantha, the younger girl had a blank expression, staring straight at Johanna’s face. Her arms far from her older sister’s embrace, her stare was unbreakable as she raised her hand, pointing one finger to the skies above. Johanna’s gaze followed, and it was there that she witnessed a massive, swirling storm of blackened clouds and flashing lightning. All around the two girls, leaves were being picked up by the wind, which howled as it carried them, thrashing particles around through the air. Thunder rumbled, causing Johanna to jump from her position on the ground, watching the sky with a look of confusion, a look of…  _anticipation_.

Bracing herself, she held her hand out to her sister, offering her help from the lowered tree stump. “Diantha, we need to get inside. Now!”

Diantha slowly,  _slowly_  made eye contact, her head picking up to continuously watch Johanna, her eyes having a sort of dead look in them. Neither did she speak nor respond in any other way, her expression unmoving yet somehow unforgettably dark. As if there was something she was completely aware of that Johanna wasn’t. There wasn’t any time for that sort of behavior, though.

Impatiently and urgently, Johanna shoved her hand even closer, still offering to help her up. “Come on! Let’s go! We still have time before it starts to…” The words were cut off by the roar of thunder and the sudden, horridly anticipated downpour upon the two of them. Within an instant, they were drenched. Diantha still watched Johanna, expressionless, leading Johanna to grab her hand, urging her to run. “Seriously, we need to get back inside!”

“Listen,” Diantha said in a calm voice, barely audible over the howling wind. “Can you hear that? Somebody’s talking to you.”

Now, Johanna was getting desperate. “No, I can’t,” she exclaimed, holding tightly her sister’s hand as she tried to drag the girl away. She didn’t budge. The rain did not cease. Something about the rain was more unsettling to her than it had ever been, causing her to shiver as it soaked her clothing, pounding against her skin. It didn’t feel right. None of it did. “I don’t care who’s talking to me! Let’s just get the hell out of here!”

Pulling Johanna back toward her, Diantha looked directly into her older sister’s eyes. “Wake up.”

Heart pounding and eyes frantically searching for a way out of the horror she faced, Johanna stopped to question her sister. “What?”

Diantha’s voice was uncharacteristically firm. “I said,  _wake up_.”

Then, Johanna felt a splash against her face, and when she opened her eyes, she was no longer in the forests around her home. Gone was the rain, but the feeling of wetness remained, continuing to plague her skin with its presence. Her sister was…  _gone_. Where was her sister? She needed to get home, she needed to get back to safety!

Someone spoke, and at the sudden noise, she expected the voice of a child, but instead she got something callous and low-pitched. “Get off of the ground.”

Johanna was nevertheless confused. Squinting and reaching over to press her fingertips to her temple, she groaned. “Not now.” Who was this, this…  _stranger_ , anyway? Really, where was Johanna? Her head ached more than ever, and her stomach felt as if it had been digesting itself. Why was everything so musky and dim? Why was her head so cold? This looked more like a jail cell than anything, but…

_Wait._

Heart skipping a beat and dread flowing through her veins, Johanna widened her eyes, staring at the source of the voice with terror. It was a Peacekeeper. Of course, she wasn’t at home; why would she have been? No, she was back in the Capitol. Scrambling backward, away from the man, she let out a terror-filled exclamation between chattering teeth, “Get away from me!” The Peacekeeper stomped forward, and when he reached over to grab her, she gave the strongest shove she could manage in attempts to push him away. Yet, she was weak, and her attempt at self-defense did nothing to keep the stronger body away. As a result of her defiance, a forceful punch was thrown at her face, a cry of pain escaping her when the fist collided with her cheek. “No!”

Grabbing Johanna by the arm and pulling her onto her feet, the Peacekeeper barked aggressively at her, “Get moving! The President wants to ask you more questions, and he’s not going to have you lying around like this.”

Even through everything she had endured, Johanna had not yet lost all of the fight in her. She was persistent in resisting, even as the Peacekeeper dragged her out of the solitary room, even as blood seeped from her nose, old wounds reopened once again. “Leave me alone,” there was a break in her voice as she wheezed out a defiant cry. Her throat felt sore from being so unaccustomed to speaking. “I’m not telling Snow anything!” She couldn’t tell anyone  _anything_ –she wouldn’t even let herself! Even so, the terror was evident in her voice; she wasn’t ready to do this all over again. Just the thought of the electricity sent shivers down her spine, instilling her with the worst kind of anticipation.

“That’s for him to decide,” replied the Peacekeeper as he pulled Johanna out of the small room, closing the sturdy door behind the two of them. The more she fought against his movement, the more force he used to drag her along with him. Dizziness overcame her senses as she wobbled along; she wasn’t sure if it was because of her physical condition, or if it was a result of the severe anxiety that remained ever present in her mind. As the brute of a guard pushed her along through corridors, past cells and through elevators, Johanna did all she could to block the thoughts of what awaited her. She could be anywhere else, by now; she could be at home, she could be in Thirteen, she could make a comment and hear Katniss’ laughter in reaction to it. She didn’t  _have_  to be in the Capitol, right? It wasn’t as if they could take her from her own mind, her sole sanctuary in this hell. Nope, none of the outside world mattered, she was fine, she was okay. She was…  _fuck, it wasn’t working_. This was useless. She was still being dragged along, and with every moment, she was closer to her destination: more torture. Continuous torture. She’d never be freed from this, would she?

Before she knew it, Johanna was back in a cell, identical to the one she’d been in before. Whether or not it was the same one she had been locked in prior to solitary, she could not tell. Her current focus was mostly on how painful it felt to be restrained once again. The straps that bound her wrists to the chair felt tighter and sturdier than ever, with no wiggle room to spare. Though she still resisted as the Peackeeper pushed her down, it was ultimately futile, and it ended with the door sealing shut and Johanna being left alone.  _Alone. As she always was._

Her chest rising and falling, she let out a huff that ended up resembling more of a wheeze than anything.

As if she hadn’t already had enough on her mind, the thought of her sister now plagued her. The vividness of her dream was so  _unsettling_ , and even if it wasn’t nearly as violent as any of the nightmares she regularly experienced, it left her with a feeling of solemness. Not just solemness, though; it seemed her grief had just been entirely renewed. It was nearly impossible to think of any family members of hers without then picturing them as corpses. The reality of it disgusted her, and it repulsed her that Snow could ever get away with taking away her family’s lives. Sure, there were times when Johanna blamed herself for their deaths, for her  _sister’s_  death, but whose fault really  _was_  it? Snow was the one who’d gotten her into this, to begin with.

God, her sister was just a  _child_. She hadn’t even been old enough to be reaped when she died. The worst part was that Johanna had no way of knowing how painful Diantha’s death had been. Johanna hadn’t been there to see it.

What if it had been  _painful_? Slow?

What if he’d tortured her family beforehand, like he had just so recently done to those Avoxes?

Just the thought alone made her tear up. Well, it  _would_  have, if she hadn’t been so dehydrated. How sickeningly  _ironic_  that was.

Johanna immediately suppressed the urge to cry, however, when a holograph visualized before her, taking up a rather large visual space in her cell. Just the sight of his face was enough to make her sick. If anything remained in her stomach, she might just have thrown up on the spot. Instead, she managed a very scornful glare.

“It’s good to see you again, Miss Mason,” the President spoke, grinning and speaking in the way one would speak to a person they were on friendly terms with. The fucking  _nerve_  he had knew no bounds. “Did you take some time to think about your unruly behavior?”

The fear that filled Johanna’s heart was prevalent, but some part of her still wanted to lash out. She was  _furious_ , and it seemed that the reminder of what Snow had done in the past had only fueled this. “You locked me in a cage for calling you out on how terrible you are,” came her response, teeth bared and eyes narrowed.

Shaking his head in disapproval, the President’s look of pleasure disappeared from his face. “You mean to tell me that you have not learned anything from your punishment?”

Johanna just sneered. “My entire existence feels like a punishment, at this point. The only thing that’s changed is that I hate you a little bit more than I did before–actually, scratch that, I hate you a  _lot_  more.”

“Very well, then. Regardless, I hope you’ll be willing to cooperate with me today. We still have to pick up where we left off, after all. Where were we?” He paused, though it seemed to be more for  _effect_  than an indication that he was _actually_  contemplating the situation. “Right. Those rebel secrets. Tell me, Johanna, what was your involvement with the rebels’ dearest  _Mockingjay_?”

Johanna fell silent, her eventual answer a reluctant mumble. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Really, now?” Snow could be seen raising his bushy eyebrows in the high-definition quality the holograph offered. “So, why was it that you ripped out her tracker in the arena, but not your own? For that matter, why didn’t you just kill her?”

Johanna’s response had a skeptical tone of its own. “How do you know I _wasn’t_  killing her? Maybe I was just going for her arm. For all anyone knows, I could’ve been aiming to take her down, anyhow.”

“Yet, she isn’t dead, is she? It’s because of you that she’s out there, alive. Am I not correct?”

Just this once, Johanna would tell the truth. “I don’t know.”

Truly, she didn’t. Not when she’d been locked up for this long.

Snow let out a grumble. “You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?”

Shaking her head, Johanna reiterated, “No, you dick. I honestly  _don’t_  know if she’s alive,” her words came through with a venomous tone to them. “I don’t even know where she is! She might have died in that arena, for all I know. It’s not like I get  _updates_  on how  _some rebellion_  is going, considering I’m stuck in the Capitol, disconnected from the rest of the world!”

This time, Snow appeared to actually consider Johanna’s words. He glared right back at Johanna; perhaps he was trying to get a better look at her expression. When he replied, his words were slow. “You always  _have_  had a gift for honesty, haven’t you? But, how would I  _fully_  know if you’re telling the truth or not?”

“Hey,” Johanna spoke again, her tone as casual as it could be, even with the shaky hollowness in her voice, “it’s not my fucking job to say. It’s not like torture is a form of payment.”

The ruminative expression on Snow’s face caused something in Johanna’s stomach to stir. She didn’t like that look at all, and she certainly did not like the way he fell so noiseless, almost as if Johanna had given him an idea of some sort. The anticipation was going to kill her if he kept this up.

“Well,” Snow finally spoke up again, after a prolonged silence. “I suppose there _might_  a way to handle a situation like this, now that I think of it.” Raising a hand to briefly wave goodbye, he gave his parting words. “I’ll speak with you again soon.”

“So, what? Are you just  _ending_  things, right there?” Johanna demanded, but by the time she’d spoken up, the holograph had already dissolved, leaving behind the same old cell wall.

She so dreaded to think of what that  _monster_  could’ve been implying. A way to handle a situation? What exactly was he hinting toward? That he could somehow make her words more convincing to him? That wasn’t reassuring at all. With the way Johanna had been treated lately, though, it was difficult to put her mind to just  _what_  he meant. Torture and starvation didn’t do much to help her thought process. If her malnutrition hadn’t done the job, then certainly the sparks to her head must have.

A groan escaped her as she lolled back in the uncomfortable chair. She’d really taken advantage of being able to move freely, hadn’t she? Her bruise-covered hands balled up into fists, and she watched as the movement caused them to look even more discolored. Fuck, did she miss the feeling of freedom.

It seemed her cellmate had heard the noise she emitted. A lower-pitched, familiar voice spoke up, sounding dry and pained. “Johanna?”

Johanna stiffened at the sound of her name. “ _You’re_ … You’re still here.”

“It’s not like I’m allowed to choose where to go.” Peeta sounded barely recognizable, a far cry from the charismatic and well-mannered boy she’d met on the elevator. He audibly cleared his throat before continuing. “You’ve been gone.”

Frowning, Jo processed his words. “Do you know for how long?”

“Long enough for me to notice. It’s been a while since I’ve heard your screams.”

The mention of her screaming caused Johanna to grimace. “Yeah. Who wouldn’t miss that?”

Peeta didn’t bother answering her rhetorical question. Instead, he proceeded, dully, “I thought he’d killed you, like he killed Lavinia and Darius.” There was not a single iota of expression behind his words. At least, there didn’t seem to be. Without seeing his face, it was difficult to know for sure what he was conveying.

“Nope,” Johanna sighed. “Still alive. Snow is keeping me alive. He thinks I have valuable information.”

“Do you?” Peeta asked, his tone almost acerbic. It caught Johanna off-guard, but she didn’t lower her defense for that.

“Let’s not talk about that,” Johanna was quick to answer. Again, anyone could have been listening to their conversation. She wasn’t going there. Telling the truth to Peeta, or whatever hollow shell of himself he’d become, was out of the question. “point is, I’m alive, and I’m back.”

There was some hesitation before Peeta responded. “Johanna, can I,  _um_ … Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“J-Johanna, do…” Peeta trailed off, his breathing becoming heavy. The monotonous tone in his voice had suddenly filled with sheer terror, though he was still quiet as he proceeded with his question. “Do you still have all of your body parts?”

The fact that Peeta would even ask that made Johanna shudder. Snow’s cruelty really did surpass that of any other. As if the Games, the Quell, the  _torture_ hadn’t been enough; Peeta had also been forced to watch others die from their own torture. The Avoxes that once served him had not gone peacefully. They had not deserved their deaths. Peeta didn’t deserve to be forced to watch it. This was all so, so, wrong, and it infuriated Johanna that she couldn’t do a single thing to change it. Not like this. Not while she was strapped to a chair, only able to interact between a vent. Yet again did Johanna shiver as she responded. “I’m all in one piece.”

It was near impossible to tell if this was of any reassurance to Peeta. “So… what did they do to you?” he asked, changing the subject, “While you were gone, I mean?”

“They held me in solitary confinement,” Johanna answered just as plainly, her eyes glazing over. “Gave me time to hate the Capitol even more, basically.” Punishing her with loneliness. As if loneliness hadn’t made up her life in the past four years, anyhow. It probably wasn’t as effective as they’d hoped, though it had certainly messed with Johanna’s already  _aching_  brain.

“…What was it like?”

Johanna swallowed, shaking her head. “I laid around like a corpse. There wasn’t anyone to talk to.” This was as close as she would get to admitting that the whole thing had damaged her. It was as close as she would get to admitting that she had truly missed having someone to talk to. It was way too soon to go soft on him, like this. She wouldn’t let herself. “It… It doesn’t matter. Peeta, you sound like shit. What have they done to  _you_?”

“To be honest,” he answered, “these days, I barely even know who I am anymore.” He was quick to gloss over those words. “I think I’ve forgotten what it’s like to live without getting tortured.”

A frown prominent on her face, Johanna gazed downward. “Snow is going to pay for this. You know that, right? He’s  _seriously_  going to pay for what he’s done. To you. To me. To Annie. To everyone else he’s fucked over during his reign. He’s not going to get away with this.”

“How do you know he won’t?” Peeta asked, his voice unsteady.

Johanna fell quiet for a moment. She really didn’t know, did she? She had absolutely no proof that the rebellion would win, that she would survive, or that any of the rebels had even truly made it out of the arena. They could’ve all been dead, but Johanna didn’t want to think that. She wanted to have hope. So, she conveyed what she could of that hope, and though her voice was tired, she didn’t miss a beat of determination. “I don’t, but that bastard’s got what’s coming to him.”

Peeta’s response came in the form of lamentation. “I just want this all to be over.”

“I know, Peeta,” Johanna murmured, “I know.”

A heavy silence weighed upon the two victors. Johanna simply didn’t know what to say beyond what she had already said; she was frankly  _exhausted_ , and Peeta could only have been in the same situation. The Capitol treated its  _guests_ like shit, and anyone who wasn’t aware of that didn’t know what the people of the city were really capable of.

As much of a fighter as Johanna was, and as much of one as she wanted to be, it was difficult to hold on.

With continued silence, she found herself giving into the beckoning hand of exhaustion, and she began to doze off. Had it even been that long since she’d last slept? Likely not, but Johanna was never lacking in exhaustion. In her dreams, thoughts of water haunted her, along with the reverberating sounds of Peeta’s screams. Jabberjays that screeched and sobbed joined the chorus, their voices all identical to that of Katniss. They flittered around, crying in deafeningly loud tones, swarming around Johanna as her lungs flooded. Peeta was nowhere to be seen, though it was evident that his suffering prevailed. Perhaps Johanna would have joined in, had it not ben for her current state of drowning. Oh, she couldn’t  _breathe_. Th water was getting deeper, deeper, _hotter_. Peeta was getting louder.

Johanna awoke with a start, gasping and trembling, bruised fingers clinging to the hard material of the chair’s arm rests. The sound of her own struggled breathing was drowned out by Peeta’s screams and unfamiliar mechanical whirring. What the other noise was, she had no way of knowing, but every other noise spoke for it all. Johanna could hear the beatings, the begging to stop, the sobbing and the rage-filled insults barked by aggressive torturers.

The day went on like this. For hours, Peeta screamed, until the sounds he made became raspier, more exhausted. Johanna only became more accustomed to hearing him. This was what their lives had come to.

It was strange, was it not? Strange how, after being left to her own devices and locked away in solitude, Peeta’s screams almost seemed  _normal_. At least she wasn’t alone in this suffering.

At least she wasn’t alone.

She wasn’t alone.

The time she’d spent in isolation had taken its tole on her. It had to have been days, perhaps even a week since she’d last heard another human being’s voice. Her own voice didn’t count, of course. Fortunately, she’d been unconscious a lot of the time–these days, staying alert was harder than ever–though, it had damaged her already fucked up mental health, leading her to where she was now.

 _I’m so sorry, Peeta_ , she thought as the brutality continued.  _I’m so sorry to be relieved by this_.

Johanna hated that she  _was_. She hated that she found herself glad to hear Peeta, in any way. In the way that she was now. Peeta was there. He was still alive. Johanna was not alone.

_Not alone._

_Not alone._

_Not alone._

Johanna’s cell door opened, and her torturers greeted her yet again.

Back to the same routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, can you believe this hasn't been updated since June? Now, here we are, in November, just a few days away from Mockingjay's official release.
> 
> Hope Chapter 8 was substantial! Don't be afraid to leave Kudos or comments. Really, feedback is what keeps me writing this monster of a fic.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Something

Every day was exactly the same: the same routine, the same torture. Johanna began keeping track of time by the water drops on her head, once the drip had returned. Peeta continued to scream at the same time every day, at the same minute and same second on the dot. Every day, they would come in, hook up the electrodes, turn on the water, and repeat the interrogation. Every time, Johanna would say the same exact thing: _no_. She wouldn’t tell them anything. Not with every convulsion, not with every time her veins turned into circuitry. Not even after she passed out from electricity.

One thing did change, and that was that they began ’ _bathing’_ Johanna. After she’d lost consciousness from too much electricity or too much drowning, they’d wake her up. Johanna would regain consciousness in a tub filled with icy, freezing water that numbed her skin, took the feeling away from her body, but only before bringing its own form of chilling agony. Sometimes, they’d strip her down while doing this, and though it lacked abuse of a sexual nature, the humiliating aspect of it was all but invisible. All of this, only to be returned to the routine of empty questions and shocking. She hated it. She hated bathing. She hated water, she hated the Capitol, and above all, she hated Snow.

Every day, at the same time, at the same moments, all of these events would transpire. Johanna even felt a slight advantage when she realized that she could keep track of time in this disconcerting, screwed-up way. It gave her a feeling of power; or, perhaps she’d just grown so used to being powerless that she wanted so desperately to know _something_ about what happened on a daily basis. There were no clocks, after all, and she had to had _something_ to do. Something to _hold onto_.

When Snow wasn’t interrogating Johanna, he was busy with Peeta. Johanna could still hear Snow, of course, but it was clear that he was addressing Peeta. Messing with his memories, telling him about how _Katniss_ was the evil one. How _Katniss_ was the one who lied and deceived.

Peeta grew more volatile each day. It had been… _around multiple weeks_ since their imprisonment, and though Johanna had spent a considerable portion of that time away from him, his gradual change was as real as ever. When they were first locked up, Peeta was afraid, and Johanna was the one filled with rage. Now, it seemed to be quite the opposite. Not to say that Johanna wasn’t angry, but she was more so the human embodiment of dread and anticipation of upcoming torture. Of course, she was afraid, and perhaps Peeta was too, but his viciousness overshadowed any terror. What were once terrorized, miserable sobs were now dangerous screams and other shouts indicative of lashing out. Peeta’s comforting words toward Johanna had become ranting about Katniss, had become attempts at convincing Johanna that _Katniss_ was the one responsible for all of the pain, suffering, and death.

Peeta didn’t know what was real, and after the electricity that ate away at so many of her own memories, Johanna wasn’t that far behind.

The electricity left an everlasting pain. Even when she wasn’t being directly tortured, her body perpetually ached. She felt the electrocutions, even when they weren’t there. She felt her lungs pause, her breathing cease, at the mere thought of water. How the hell was she going to handle this? What was she going to be like when she came out of the Capitol, if she ever did? What if the pain didn’t go away, even after her open wounds and oozing scabs healed? After growing so used to dysfunction, would she ever know what living a functional life was like?

There was no way of telling.

For now, though, she remained in this hell, this constant pain.

Aside from her own method of keeping track of things in her own, secluded little way, Johanna had no means of telling what went on outside. She couldn’t help but _wonder_ , again, though. How was Annie lasting? Was she still alive? Were _any_ of the rebels still alive? Considering the fact that the President still interrogated her, she got the feeling that they were. He wouldn’t have wanted to know, if they were already dead.

Perhaps there still was hope, as long as Johanna kept everything from him.

One day, however, after all of the repetition that caused everything to become a miserable blur, things changed.

It started with Johanna’s door sliding open, and the sight of Larimar, once again. Her visits had been seldom in comparison to the way they’d been when Johanna had first been imprisoned, though she still regarded the woman with the utmost disdain.

“Johanna,” the woman’s voice came, sending a chill down Johanna’s spine. “It’s been a while. How have you been?”

Of course, there was no way in hell Johanna would let her fear show now. Even as her heart seemed to sink through her chest and disappear into some sort of void of fright and hatred. Even though her body trembled whenever she was spoken to nowadays. No one had to know how **afraid** she was. “Ugh,” she groaned, rolling her eyes and lolling her head forward. “I’ve never liked seeing you. You know that, right?” She took in a deep breath, pushing it out in a way that was most uncomfortable. “What are you going to do, Larimar? Are you going to _shock_ some more answers out of me?” Her tone was mocking. She didn’t know why she would continue to endanger herself with this sort of talk. “Oh, right, that doesn’t work, and it never has. Does that hurt your _feelings_?”

“It hurts a lot more than _my feelings_ , you know,” Larimar glared at Johanna, though she seemed to regain her aloof composure after a moment of bitterness. “Anyhow, I think you’ll be pleased to know that we’ve developed a much more efficient method of getting answers from you. You’ll actually be the first to test it out, for this exact purpose. Truly an _honor_ , is it not?”

Johanna pretended to ignore the daunting words. “No offense–well, actually, full offense, but if I weren’t strapped down to this chair, I’d punch you in the neck.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Larimar deadpanned, her lips turning upward into a tight and strained smile. “and, I’ll be seeing you soon. The President is rather eager to see how this effective method is.”

After another unnerving stare directed toward Johanna, Larimar parted ways, quite recklessly slamming the door of the cell.

Johanna waited. Aside from the sounds of Peeta’s labored breaths and the occasional distant sobbing, there was a disturbing hush that occupied the room.

Might as well make _some_ sort of conversation, right?

“Hey, Peeta,” Johanna’s voice was soft when she spoke up, cautious as not to stir up something awful within her neighbor. He was unpredictable now, and she didn’t know when he’d lash out next. “Can we talk?”

Peeta’s response came almost instantly. “About what?”

“I don’t know,” a sigh escaped Johanna’s dry lips, “anything. I just need a distraction. Have any stories to tell? Anything nice about your life, any good memories?”

“Not exactly,” Peeta grumbled through the vent. “Memories aren’t my strong suit as of late. Not to rain on your parade, but…”

Johanna interrupted him, impatiently. “Don’t talk about rain. Forget it.” She didn’t want to associate herself with anything related to water, not even something so simple as a figure of speech. Clearly, trying to get a distraction form someone as equally miserable as herself was pointless.

“We don’t have to stop there,” came Peeta’s suggestion, “I mean, there are  _some_ things about my life that aren’t depressing or completely vague.”

“Like?”

“Have I ever told you about my painting?” Peeta asked.

“I’ve heard about your talent with a brush,” Johanna replied, “but I don’t think I know the full extent of it. What kind of things do you paint?”

“All sorts of things,” Peeta explained, “things related to the Games, people I knew, sceneries… that sort of thing.”

Johanna tried to picture something other than the four walls of a torture cell, tried to picture a world outside, _anything_. A small, thoughtful noise escaped her. “Sound nice. I bet you’re good.”

“I guess so. I mean, I enjoy doing it, though I haven’t exactly had the opportunity lately.”

“Right,” Johanna nodded her head. “Neat that you’re into painting, though. I’ve never been much of an artist, myself. Well, aside from woodcarvings.”

Peeta’s tone of voice seemed to have growing curiosity behind it. “You do woodcarvings?”

There was a hint of pride when Johanna replied; well, false pride, really, considering she’d been stripped of all her pride. “Damn right. I’ve always enjoyed working with wood. It’s a good distraction, good way to keep myself busy. That was sort of my _thing_ , after my Games.” It was one thing she didn’t hate to do; give her a knife and a block of wood, or any type of wood, for that matter, and she’d go to town on it. She… _hadn’t_ really talked about that sort of thing in a while, come to think about it. All recent conversations had been, _understandably_ , gloomy. The thought of carving a middle finger and mailing it to Snow brought a smile to her face, however. “I also worked on a little bit of carpentry, too. Made some furniture here and there. Wooden stuff, like everything else in Seven, I suppose.”

“I’d like to see that someday,” responded Peeta.

“Tell you what,” Johanna said, “when we get the hell out of here and I get my hands on some wood, I’ll make something just for you. Just to commemorate our _dandy little friendship_.”

“Sounds like a deal.”

The door to Johanna’s cell opened again, snapping her attention away from Peeta and directly toward the door. Her heart began to pound, and she felt a wave of anxiety wash over her as she saw the figures entering the room. Larimar, followed by the man who’d regularly administered her electroshocks, entered the room. There was something in his hands, some sort of smaller machine, not quite the size of the ones behind her. Johanna felt herself freeze, silent as she watched in horror as the man set up the device, attaching wires to her trembling body and hooking up the usual electrodes soon afterward.

“What is…” Johanna barely got the question out before receiving a slap to the face. A distressed noise escaped her, flinching as she heard a small humming sound, the unidentifiable machine starting up. She took in a shaky breath, mumbling an insult toward her assailant under her breath.

“This is a device to determine whether or not you’re telling the truth. For the purpose of insurance. It will administer an electric shock when you either lie, or take too long to answer. The less you obey, the greater each shock will be. Is that understood?”

Johanna didn’t answer. Larimar repeated herself, voice raised to greater volumes this time, “Is that understood?”

Swallowing the lump in her throat and fighting back tears, Johanna managed a response, quiet and terror-filled. “Y… yes, understood.”

She had absolutely no idea how she’d do this, how she’d manage to get through this without being fried to death. There was no way she’d let Snow, or anyone working for the Capitol, know about the rebellion.

What other option did she have? Could she get past this machine? Could she convince them that she was truly without a single clue of what the revolution meant?

Perhaps she’d just have to _try_.

“So, _Jo_ ,” Larimar began, placing a hand on Johanna’s arm. When Johanna attempted to jerk her arm free, Larimar only tightened her grip, eliciting another whimper from the tortured Victor. “How many of you were in on this rebellion? Clearly, you weren’t the only Victor… _Tribute_ in the Quarter Quell, focusing on getting Katniss out alive. Tell me, who else was involved?”

Johanna chewed at her bottom lip nervously, afraid to take too long with her answer. “Um,” she murmured, her breaths speeding up as she anxiously anticipated what would soon come. “I… don’t know.”

**_SHOCK._ **

The sudden hit of electricity to her body drew a scream from her lips, causing her muscles to tense and her face to contort into something displaying clear agony.

“So, you clearly _do_ know,” Larimar taunted, running her hand down Johanna’s arm, raking her claw-like fingernails over the colorfully bruised skin that was covered in all sorts of scabs and abrasions. “Who was it? How about we start with names? How about, say… your _fellow Victor_ who seems to have disappeared as of late? The one from Twelve. Haymitch, is it?”

“What about him?” Johanna couldn’t stop her voice from sounding more like a hurt whine than a steady question.

“Was he involved in the rebellion?”

There was silence on Johanna’s side. If she said _yes_ , they’d know too much. If she said _no_ , they’d know she was lying, **_and_** she’d just get electrocuted again. Well, it seemed she’d be fucked in either scenario. So, she bared her teeth, red from sore and bleeding gums, tears spilling from her eyes. “I’m not telling you.” This time, as she anticipated, the electrocution was more powerful, much longer lasting than the previous one. Johanna’s response to the pain was equally as audible and agonized as her previous.

“Johanna, you’re looking _awfully_ hungry,” a finger traced over Johanna’s chest, where the thing that could barely be considered clothing clung to her perspiring skin, where her ribs were sticking out so _prominently_ due to malnourishment. “It’s been a long time since you’ve eaten, hasn’t it?”

The question was greeted with _nothing_ , not a single response.

“If you just _told_ us,” Larimar drawled, shaking her head, “if you just _told_ us what was going on with the rebellion, I could arrange a feast. One with real, _gourmet_ Capitol food. You don’t _have_ to starve.”

More silence, and a glare from Johanna. _If looks could kill…_

“Or, maybe something expired, or even _rotting_. It’s not like you particularly  _deserve_ a good meal, after all of the ways you’ve failed to cooperate with us.”

 _Well, looks probably_ **_could_ ** _kill, but Johanna would be the one getting killed._

“You know, it _can_ get worse than this.”

Silence, and then her body was electrified, reaping tears, foaming saliva expelled, and a scream that’s met with the sound of a cracked voice.

There was not much saliva. _Had her mouth always been this dry?_

“It can **always** get worse. Are you aware of this?”

There was a warm mixture of blood and spit, perhaps even some _bile_ seeping from between her cracking lips. No words, though. The glare persisted.

“We could see how you get along with boiling water, instead. Perhaps we’d even electrify the water, while we’re at it.”

…

Larimar didn’t stop talking. Fucking hell, she never stopped talking. Her voice was worse than nails on a chalkboard. Snow really needed to get that little  _lapdog_ of his put down.

“You’re not accomplishing anything by staying quiet.”

 _Shut up. Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up_ ** _SHUT UP_** , the word ECHOES endlessly in Johanna’s mind and she would _scream_ it if she could, if she had the energy within her, if she wasn’t frozen with fear and rage and a horrifying amalgamation of inconsolable feelings. Her thoughts were screaming at her and her glare was nearly as loud as the screams – well, if looks could _scream_.

Of course, Peeta had joined in on the screaming, not too long ago. Johanna barely even noticed anymore. His screams stood out as much as boring wallpaper, as she was so _used_ to them by now.

“Johanna.” Larimar stared her in the eye, now. “Don’t you want to see your home again? Don’t you want to live? Don’t you want to know what it feels like to have the sun shining against your skin? The feeling of _freedom_?”

There were tears falling, but Johanna didn’t cry out, didn’t whimper or sob.

“You know that can’t happen if you don’t give up those little _secrets_ of yours.”

Her body, though, it was shaking, and her breaths were uneven and she just couldn’t stop _quivering_.

“Don’t you want to go home? It’s the only thing you really have left, isn’t it? Your District, your _land_ ; you love it, don’t you? What if you never see a single tree again because of this?”

She was so tired. The electricity didn’t help much when it came to waking her up.

“It would all be on _you_ , Johanna.”

She recalled the lightning tree. Then, she recalled what Beetee said about that very tree, back in the arena. How it _would’ve_ been destroyed, if it had been a real tree.

 _‘You know trees better than any of us, Johanna It would’ve been destroyed by now, wouldn’t it?’_  

That’s what he’d said.

Trees. Lightning. Electricity. Shocks.

Johanna had something in common with the lightning tree.

_Tick, tock._

“If you’re not going to tell us anything, anything _at all_ , do you realize what will happen?

Her head had been pounding all day, but it was hard to hear with the screaming: her own internal screaming, Peeta’s _not so internal screaming_.

"You’ll be useless.”

_It was pounding like thunder, readying itself for the next lightning strike._

“Disposable.”

_Or, however storms worked._

“We won’t need to keep you alive anymore.”

Storms seemed more relatable to Johanna than any people did.

“We could do irreversible damage to you.”

In fact, she barely felt as if she were a human anymore. Clearly, no one _here_ saw her as a person.

“ _Irreversible_ damage, Johanna.”

So, Johanna spoke up again, daring to speak, daring to face the one orchestrating her torture. “You already have.”

Larimar raised an eyebrow. “So, she finally speaks,” she replied, running a hand through her obnoxiously bright hair. “Trust me, _darling_ , things _could_ get worse. How would you like to learn what it feels to lose each and every one of your fingers, one after another? What about a hand, or an arm? This…” she scoffed. “ _electrocution_ act is mere child’s play in the wide and diverse field of torture. We could do so, _so_ much more to you.”

“I d… don’t know,” Johanna croaked, again gnawing her lower lip. It was only after she’d tasted blood that she’d realized how hard she’d been biting. “You’ve already f-fucked up… _everything_. You… you can only go _s-so_ far…”

“Not true at _all_. There are _many_ more methods we could use on you, Johanna. Have you ever heard of the techniques they used long before the war? Before the dark days, before Panem was even formed or recognized as a country?”

Johanna didn’t reply, she just scowled at Larimar, trying to ignore the dreadful, churning feeling deep within her.

“We’ve recovered _ancient_ documents on even _more_ ancient techniques for torture - fairly recently, actually. I must admit, they’re a lot more… _low-tech_ than any of our lovely implications, much more barbaric,” Larimar continued, the tone of enthusiasm in her voice serving to sicken Johanna, “but I’d love to see how they’d work on a living subject. You’d be surprised how _talented_ those people were with things as _simplistic_ as heated oil or metal.”

“Y-you’re not scaring me…” Yes, yes she was. She was instilling the deepest fear in Johanna, the kind that sickened to her core.

Strangely enough, the lie detecting machine seemed to catch that one, and a beep went off on the machine, sending another shock through her body.

Nothing felt real. Her body was a conductor, her veins like wires, her ears ringing and she was seeing _stars_. Part of her wanted to keep lying, to keep rebelling, because maybe the next shock would be the one to finally end her. Put her out of her misery. It would’ve been better than _around the clock torture_.

“Oh, but our little lie detector knows otherwise. See, all of this could be avoided, if you just _talked_ to us. If you just told us what’s on your mind. You’re the only one preventing all of that torture. Do I really have to keep telling you all of this, though?”

Another electrocution was administered. Johanna’s sight was getting blurry. She couldn’t hear properly. Larimar’s voice was fading away. The stronger the shocks became, the more distant the world became, the more everything blurred and faded into ambiguity.

& then another shock.

and another.

Then, nothing.

* * *

 

Johanna heard them talking. Her consciousness came and left as vaguely and irregularly as it could. Who was speaking, though? Words were difficult to discern, muddled, blurred if words could ever _be_ blurred.

They weren’t nearby voices. In fact. it sounded like they were outside of her cell. There was a strange muffled echo to the voices, like they were close, but divided by a wall, or perhaps walls. No familiar voices thus far.

’ _We … dispose of her_ ,’ one voice starts, certain words muted by the high-pitched whining sound of ringing ears.

Johanna attempted to open her eyes, look around, but was met with a half-lidded, half-conscious gaze at the walls that seemed to be covered in dark, unpleasant-looking spots of nothingness. The spots moved with her vision, showed upon the surface of her body and of the hardened chair that she was strapped to. She stared at her arm for a moment, now _emaciated_ and covered in bruises in all shapes and sizes. There were plenty of open wounds from direct electricity; not just the _'gentle’_ kind with ready nodes, but of direct contact against sparking wires. She could barely remember when, or where, she’d gotten these ones. Maybe when she was around Annie in the torture room. Maybe she’d looked this way her entire life without realizing. Maybe she didn’t look like anything, because none of this was even _real_ anymore.

So difficult to tell.

The voices continue.

 _'What about … orders? What if … out?’_ another voice sounds confused, _concerned?_ Not that it matters. Johanna’s absolutely _fascinated_ with how the dark spots in her vision meld with the bruises covering her arm. Like a work of art, but not.

_’ … not telling us anything. She refuses to tell us anything … rebellion.’_

Oh, so they were talking about _her_ , were they? Fucking pricks. She’d love to throw an axe right at them, make it hit all of the _soft_ spots in their bodies.

That would’ve been nice.

 _'Talk to Coriolanus_ ,’ one of the voices said, becoming clearer now, though still rather indistinguishable. _'Let him have his say. We might not need her to learn about the Mockingjay. There are other ways.’_ The sudden clarity came as quickly as it left, as the voices became more distant, faded away just like everything had before. It scared Johanna, though; or, it would have, if she hadn’t felt like anything less than a living corpse.

Wherever Larimar had left to, that fucked up woman _had_ succeeded in scaring her.

Johanna didn’t like the direction everything was going.

* * *

 

The repetition continued over the next few days. Later on in the week, it seemed that the constant torture only got worse. More icy water, and as Larimar has implied, more hot water. It seared her skin and turned her body a flushed red coloration that only became pale once ice was dumped onto her, and the aftermath was an awful complexion that just made her bruises look worse.

To think that, before this, she’d had a full head of hair and clean-looking skin… _ha, that was some unbelievable bullshit if she’d ever heard any_.

At one point during the interrogation, Johanna even decided to _start_ giving them answers, but giving them entirely wrong ones. Some of it was sarcastic in nature, but whenever the interrogations lacked a lie detector, she let loose any lies she could think up. Giving them the wrong locations, making up some fictitious _District Fourteen_ that was shoehorned somewhere into that gigantic space of land above Panem. For a while, they even believed it, giving her a break from torture and allowing her to eat a lunch of some guards’ table scraps. It was humiliating, but - well, just about _everything_ was at this point, wasn’t it? Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken Snow and his lackeys long to figure out that she was just making everything up.

The result was, _well_ … If one could imagine electrocution, drowning, waterboarding, dripping ceilings, physical beatings and harsh insults _getting any_ ** _worse_** , then one **_might_** have had a clear idea of how **_that_** went down. She lost a couple of fingernails in the process, as well.

It was _bad_ , and it only got _more_ awful from there. There was really no point in being optimistic about Capitol imprisonment and torture.

The strange thing, though, is that after _all_ of this seemingly never-ending torture, there _did_ come a day that they finally decided to stop it, simply out of nowhere. There was just even more silence; well, there would have been, if not for Peeta’s now _entirely fucking deranged_ screaming next-door. But, on Johanna’s end, there was silence, and she spent practically a whole day waiting for something to happen, and nothing _did_ happen. The next day was the same; they’d just left her there, no torture implements, not even the water dripping above her onto her head.

Quiet.

Way too quiet.

Then, Larimar stormed in, out of nowhere, after so much time filled with nothingness and miserable Peeta, and she had the look upon her face that showed that she was just so entirely impatient and fed up with Johanna’s _so-called disobedience_. Or, _whatever_ she was about to spout. It was nothing like the calmness that she once had when they first met. The other one, the torturer whose name Johanna had never figured out, was with her.

“What?” Johanna asked, and her voice, so unused after spending so much time alone, sounded no less worse than before. “Did I do s-something to piss y-you off, again?” Her body hadn’t ceased the shaking since the last round of shocks, leaving her to stutter a bit more than she wanted to.

“I’ve reached a decision, miss Mason,” Larimar began, her tone of voice forced, “and it seems like, with the lack of cooperation, it might just be more efficient to let you die down here.”

A mixture of emotions filled Johanna - confusion, shock, _excitement?_ Oh, no, was she actually looking forward to this? No, that couldn’t be right. She could barely believe her ears. “You’re bullshitting me, right? …Right? Y-you’ve got to be.”

“You’ve just,” Larimar shook her head quickly, rustling her freakishly blue hair, “you’ve just _really_ pushed the limits. I’ve been patient with you. I’ve offered you _so_ much, and I…” Well, it seemed that Johanna wasn’t the only one trembling, though for Larimar it appeared to be for an entirely different reason. “I don’t _want_ to be assigned to oversee you anymore. I simply _don’t_. You’ve been so disobedient, you’ve refused to share _anything_ of import. You’re entirely useless, Johanna. We’ve already gotten what information we need on the rebellion, and it’s _no_ thanks to you.”

“I pride myself on that.” Johanna deadpanned, her voice lowered, staring the woman directly in the eyes.

“That’s barely the _point_ ,” Larimar stepped away, behind Johanna’s chair, and the sound of her rustling through equipment could be heard. “Are you aware of the fact that we’ve _bombed_ District Thirteen?”

“What? _When-_ ” Johanna began to ask, though she was very quickly cut off by Larimar’s frustrated speech.

“They _survived_ , Johanna. They survived, thanks to your _moron_ of a cellmate, who warned them. Mellark? _Yes, that’s his name_ – but, we’ve discovered where District Thirteen is, and there is a full-blown war going on in the Districts, and, and…” she stuttered, grabbing something behind Johanna, though the object was entirely unknown until Larimar stepped in front of the chair, standing before the beaten Victor with the razor shaver in hand. “and, it’s going to spread to the Capitol, and _you_ knew this, didn’t you? You _knew_ that, by biding your time, you could only _help_ your fellow rebels with their insurgence. You had to have _known_.”

Johanna was simply wordless, trying to take in all of the information that the sadistic woman had vomited out in her direction. _Bombs?_ Peeta had warned District Thirteen about a bombing? When had that all happened? Why was it that Johanna hadn’t known about this? Everything was happening too rapidly for her to process it all. She hissed in pain as the other woman drove the razor against her head, ridding her of the stubble that had once again grown back. This time, it was much more aggressive, the painful electric motions drawing blood from certain areas of her scalp. “ _Fuck_. C-can you slow down?”

“No! I’m not slowing down. In fact, do you know what? I’m going to turn on the electricity, and I’m going to leave it on, and you are going to _suffer_ for what you’ve done until your last breath.”

“So, y-you’re _executing_ me?” Johanna stammered, “That’s your solution? Does Snow even k-know about this?”

“Does it matter? Consider this a _favor_ for the people in the Capitol. A sacrifice. You’ve done nothing hinder us, we’ll all be better off if you’re dead.”

Larimar shoved the razor at the other torturer, impatiently forcing him to do the job of turning it off. “Turn up the electroshock device. Set it to a gradual increase.”

She’d hoped she would go out in a bang, had she happened to die in the Capitol, but _this_? This wasn’t a bang. This was _frying_ to death, and again, Johanna found herself absolutely mortified. She wasn’t ready to die. Not yet. Not without getting to see the trees again, not without being able to go home, not without saying goodbye to… _who did she even have to say goodbye to, anymore?_ It didn’t matter. She still wasn’t ready to die, ironically going against her most recent death wishes.

Johanna clenched her jaw as the electrodes were attached to her body, multiple ones on each limbs, her head getting extra attention. “Goddamn sadist. I hope your death is violent and bloody.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Larimar replied smugly.

Then, the electricity began. Slow, at first, barely even noticeable, and then it spiked, and it went higher, and Johanna felt it burn through her, taking control of her body again and making her tremor, pain in every nerve.

“Come along,” she heard Larimar say, motioning toward the other torturer. “We’ve spent enough time in here. Let’s leave our dear Johanna to her business.”

Just as Johanna was about to protest, perhaps even _beg_ for for mercy, or even just for a less horrid death, the pair left, slamming the door behind them.

The hallways echoed with the sounds of her agonized cries as the electricity slowly grew in potency, affecting her body more heavily, ripping through her being and even physically burning certain areas, places where the electrodes had been attached to poorly healed scabs. Her vision was becoming blurry again, her consciousness fading and her thoughts and memories getting seared, much like her body currently was.

It grew, and it grew, and it _grew_ to unmeasurable amounts of pain, and she could hear Peeta’s suffering right beside her, both of them screaming, and, oh, fuck, this was the end, she was going to die this way, she was going to die, _she was going to die she was going to die_ ** _shewasgoingtoDIE_** -

…

…Then,

_darkness._

_Darkness?_

She was dead, wasn’t she? She had to have been, as somewhere along the line, somewhere as the electricity had gotten so unbearable, it had suddenly stopped, and the lights had died out, and the sound of buzzing machines went away, _and the power stopped, and-_

 _The power._ The power in the torture cells had gone out.

The electricity died instead of Johanna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this fanfiction is a year old, as of yesterday! Happy birthday to Buzzing. The funny thing is that it literally took a year of on-and-off writing for the torture to end. There will, of course, be plenty of emotional angst to follow, because I thrive off of Johanna's misery and pain. ;) Thanks for reading, and thank you for the patience between chapters!


	10. Rescuing

After the power went out, Johanna was quick to follow, falling unconscious, the world around her as dark as the one inside her mind. After going so long without substantial sleep, this felt like a true opportunity to finally get some rest. Not to imply that it was by any means comfortable; the chair she slept in was still ever so stiff and unwelcoming with the way she was strapped to it, her wrists and ankles bearing most of the burden of the tighter straps, leaving them badly scathed and burnt by friction. Still, it was the first time there had been any absence of light during her imprisonment.

There were a few times that nightmares would jerk her awake, and she’d open her eyes to find that the power was still out, and that her torturers were gone, that the electricity was still off.

She didn’t know how the machine that shocked her worked. She could only wonder what would happen when the power returned. Would she get electrified again? Would it remain off? Johanna desperately hoped for the latter.

Everything was dark, colorless, lightless, and yet her torturers did not reappear. Perhaps they had more pressing manners. Perhaps the power surge had somehow shocked them in return for what they’d done to her; oh, _that_ would have been poetic justice, unlikely as it was.

No, it was quite out of the ordinary, how _nothing_ seemed to happen.

Without being able to do anything about it, Johanna accepted this fate.

* * *

  _Rustling_. Johanna heard rustling - quiet footsteps gently pattering against the floor, somewhere in the world outside of her cell, but not far. Not far enough to be entirely distant. Something was approaching. _Someone_.

There was something in the air, and though Johanna had barely been conscious before, the sudden sleepiness that befell her was entirely different from any previous drowsiness. _There was something in the air_ , and she didn’t know what, but she knew that her head was spinning, aching dully, and the air seemed to fight with her lungs. Everything was going, awareness blanking, and…

_She was out cold._

* * *

Tired, bloodshot brown eyes opened gracelessly, slowly, taking in her surroundings with muddled bewilderment. It felt as if the woman had just discovered a world entirely foreign, so _alienated_ in contrast to the plain walls of her Capitol cell. She wiggled her wrists around, so used to the bindings that clamped against her, only to find that there was nothing to hold her back. Well, that was _new_. Bringing her hands forth, Johanna found herself simply  _staring_ , examining the bruised and heavily damaged skin as if she’d never received such an incredible opportunity to see her own hands.

She wasn’t without drowsiness; in fact, this could have been quite obvious, the way she took the time to intimately examine her own hands for little a reason.

However, she did not linger for _too_ long. It was with a steady breath that she dared to take a proper look around her.

A gurney supported her body, though it wasn’t the only one in the room. Peeta remained unconscious beside her, on a separate gurney himself. The surrounding room was one Johanna immediately recognized to be that of a hovercraft.

Her thoughts were immediately of the worst case scenario. _This is the Capitol’s hovercraft. They’re transporting me to a place just as bad as the torture cells. Somewhere worse, even. Somewhere that has power. Somewhere that has more electricity. That has to be it._

Her heart rate picked up, a sinking sensation deep within her gut, and using the lack of bondage to her advantage, she began to scramble off of the gurney, ready to flee - hell, ready to find a way to _jump out_ if she had to. She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t, there was no way in _hell_ she’d allow herself to get tortured any longer.

Unfortunately, Johanna hadn’t put much thought into the fact that she was entirely emaciated - that her muscles had been practically eaten away at - and, as a result of this, she had only managed to throw herself of the bed, crashing to the floor. A profanity, a hoarse and painful exclamation at that, escaped her as she tumbled over, clearly frustrated about the reality of her situation.

It seemed that someone else had noticed this commotion, as not long afterward, footsteps could be heard approaching. Johanna scrambled to sit upright, in spite of her exhaustion, curling herself into a defensive position, wrapping her arms around her knees. “T-take one step closer and I’ll break your _goddamn legs_ ,” she warned the pair of legs that had approached her.

Shivering in anticipation of a retaliation, a _kick_ , Johanna only ended up confused by the lack of aggression. Instead, the owner of the pair of legs, who turned out to be a young man of a notably tall stature, simply knelt down before Johanna, lowering himself to her height. He spoke in a low voice, cautious, perhaps almost even _gentle_. Johanna immediately decided that she didn’t trust him. “Hey, it’s okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you. You’re safe.”

Johanna’s eyes widened at the man, backing herself a few inches away before scowling. “Bullshit,” she rasped, tucking her malnourished legs even closer to her body, “now tell me who the _fuck_ you are, or I swear, I'll…” Her words trailed off there, mostly because she had no idea what her next threat could be. She barely appeared threatening, with her flimsy arms, her baggy eyes, and her colorful menagerie of bruises and abrasions. “I'll… _um_ …” No, _no_ , this wasn’t going well at all. Perhaps a direct approach would be the best route to take. “J-just _tell_ me who you are!”

The man furrowed his eyebrows, something a _little_ too close to pity in his grey eyes. Examining his features further, he bore an almost _uncanny_ resemblance to someone else she knew. Someone who was _stubborn_ and _good with a bow_. “ _Hawthorne_ ,” he introduced himself, his tone sympathetic. “I’m Gale Hawthorne. I’m part of the rescue squad from District Thirteen. We were sent to get you, Peeta, and Annie Cresta from the Capitol and take you back to Thirteen. We’re almost there now.”

Johanna couldn’t believe her ears. This _had_ to be some kind of joke, right? Some kind of elaborate dream that she would wake up from, only to find her torturers staring down at her. That’s what this was. “This can’t be real,” she said aloud, not to this _Gale_ fellow, but majorly to herself. “This is some intricate, fucked up scheme that Snow’s hatched,” the injured woman continued, looking back to Gale, staring him directly in the eye. “Don’t _lie_ to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Gale replied firmly. He then eyed Johanna, and his gaze made her squirm uncomfortably, because he _had_ to have been judging her at the very moment. “Can I help you up?”

“No.” Johanna’s response was instantaneous, _callous_.

A sigh escaped Gale, “Well, all right. I’m not going to force you to get up,” he replied. As he stood himself up, he visibly flinched at his own movement, reaching over to clutch his shoulder.

The shoulder was wounded. Johanna could tell that much. She pried, if not quite hesitantly so, “What’s the deal with your shoulder?”

“Got hit during the rescue,” Gale replied.

As he spoke, another man, older and with a rather firm posture approached from behind Gale. There was a serious, _professional_ look upon his face, though he wasn’t entirely stoic, as slight concern showed in his expression. “Soldier Hawthorne, try to _avoid_ exacerbating your injury,” he spoke, “I’ll take this from here.”

Gale gave a disgruntled nod, and walked away form Johanna, giving her a small but pained nod of acknowledgment. As Johanna was left to face the next unfamiliar man, she watched him, waiting. Waiting for something awful to happen.

Yet, nothing awful _did_ happen.

“I apologize for the uncomfortable first impression,” the older man said to Johanna, turning his head to look down to her. “Johanna Mason, my name is Boggs. President Coin made it an official priority to arrange this rescue. Your safety is guaranteed with us, and thanks to a pardon issued by the President herself, no harm will be done to you while you’re in our care. Are you following me?”

Johanna looked to Boggs, then she glanced down at the floor, taking a moment to process all of the given information. _She wasn’t in the Capitol any longer. She’d been rescued._ ** _Rescued_** _. She wasn’t being tortured anymore_. For a moment, she reached over, rubbing one of her wrists. The skin there was tender, incredibly scathed as she ran her fingers over it. This hurt, but it meant that she wasn’t tied up any longer. She was _free_. Her body relaxed at this realization, letting her legs fall more languidly against the surface of the floor. She inhaled slowly, _eyes closed, eyes open, breathing in, breathing out-_

 _This was_ **_real_ ** _._

 _She was_ **_alive_ ** _._

 _She had_ **_actually_ ** _been rescued._

The realization made her eyes well up with tears, far too overwhelmed by her freedom, far too relieved, far too _speechless_ to properly respond. For that very moment, she didn’t care how she looked, allowing herself to have a lump in her throat, allowing herself to feel the slight sting in her eyes, because _this was real_. Because she had really, legitimately expected to die in the Capitol without ever being saved. She took in another deep breath, shaking, just fixating her hands again. Her voice was quiet, barely audible to anyone who wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. “Y-yeah, I'm… I’m following you.”

“Good,” Boggs replied. “We should be arriving in District Thirteen very soon. We don’t have _all_ of the necessary medical supplies on this hovercraft, but if there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.

"Okay,” was all Johanna could muster in response, vision clouded with tears. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, struggling to keep a straight face. It was still so _difficult_ to believe that she truly was safe, but… here she was, on some District Thirteen hovercraft, with some District Thirteen official and his _Katniss-lookalike_ companion, Peeta passed out beside her and Annie likely not far off. Everything about it seemed so _unreal_ , and yet, it was all genuine.

As Boggs walked back to where he was stationed, Johanna remained on the ground for the next few moments, taking everything in, drinking in ever detail of her freed body, of the hovercraft, and of the people who freed her. She was far too emotional to deal with it properly, sure, but nothing compared to the alleviation of _finally_ being freed from seemingly endless torture.

_Free._

Afterward, she mustered the willpower to scramble back onto her gurney. Even if it was stiff and not necessarily _comfortable_ , it felt like she’d laid herself upon the most amazing thing in her life.

Freedom was _truly_ an amazing thing.

* * *

 The sound of rattling supplies and moving metals caused Johanna to stir from a sleep she hadn’t even realized she’d fallen into. As it happened, she startled a bit, sitting straight up - well, as straight as her body allowed her to sit before a strong pain in her abdomen caused her to slowly lay back down. Using her elbows, however, she propped herself up, getting a look at the surrounding hovercraft. It seemed the vehicle was powering down, or perhaps it had already powered down not long ago, finally landed after _however_ long of a journey. People were walking back and fourth through the doors of the hovercraft. A medical team was soon to follow; a few nurses and some doctors, presumably. As soon as they had so much as glimpsed at Johanna and Peeta, their faces filled with terror poorly concealed by a professional facade, they began to wheel the Victors out of the hovercraft, with Annie soon to follow.

Johanna had no complaints, nothing to say, as the nurses whisked her through the large hangar that was _presumably_ District Thirteen, through elevators here and there, and toward the hospital. She was too tired to complain, too worn out to question the whole thing. Nearby her, Peeta stirred awake in his gurney. When Johanna looked over to him, simply out of curiosity, she saw a wild, unnatural look in his eyes, a certain strain to his reddened eyes that caused the Victor from Seven to feel a certain amount of concern. God, she was so tired, and her memories were just absolutely fucking her over, but… _should she have said something about Peeta?_

Before she got a chance to look at him again, he was already gone, having been wheeled to another part of the hospital. Johanna looked over to the person wheeling her, a young-looking man in a nurse outfit. “Hey,” she spoke to him, her voice dry and much quieter than she had anticipated, “you m-might want to…” No, hold on, what was it that she had planned on saying? Something about Peeta? Her head was killing her. She was in so much pain. She could barely stand simply being _awake_. “um…”

The man wheeling her into the hospital could only shoot a questioning, uncomfortable and _grossly sympathy-filled_ glance at Johanna, as if waiting for her to finish her sentence. She never did, however, as she was quickly whisked into place, tucked into some area with curtains for walls. Hospital staff, namely Doctors, almost immediately crowded around her, muttering worried words amongst each other. A pained hiss escaped Johanna as they jabbed an IV into her arm after hurriedly rubbing alcohol over her bruised skin. One of the nurses tried to force something around her arm, something to check her blood pressure, something that Johanna immediately responded by pushing it away, batting at the medical equipment, sending things flying. She barely thought about what she was doing, barely questioned the impact of it all. All she could think about was how damn _overwhelmed_ she was.

Another person approached to check her vitals. Johanna pushed them away, too, raising her voice for the first time since she’d arrived. “I don’t want that!”

She just needed her damn space! _Fuck_ , everything hurt so much.

As Johanna rather tactlessly yanked an oxygen tube from her nose, though, she saw _her_. Walking by, adorned in some dull grey jumpsuit, dark hair flowing over her shoulders, olive skin and grey eyes - _Katniss_. Johanna kept her eyes glued to the younger woman, watched carefully, took in every single detail of the person she had been brutally tortured for. That was _her_. When Katniss acknowledged Johanna in return, her expression showed nothing but the purest unsettlement, as if she was thinking the same thing as Johanna was.

Daring to think about the _torture_.

Her voice came so soft, so astonished, it was barely audible. “Johanna…”

Another voice chimed in. “Finnick!”

Johanna exhaustedly shifted her glance from Katniss to the owner of the third voice. Annie Cresta. Alive and in the flesh, and for the most part in tact, aside from severely unbrushed hair and a generally unkempt appearance. With her was Finnick Odair, lover of Annie, friend of Johanna, very much alive and breathing, pulling Annie into an embrace and kissing her and acting as if nothing else in the world mattered as much as this. Finnick was okay. He was alive. He was reunited with Annie. Johanna’s head hurt. Still, she took the moment to watch the two of them, feeling with her a slight reassurance that her only friend had survived whatever he’d been through. That the one her friend loved had survived in the same manner. For those two, all was good.

Finding herself distracted, however, Johanna looked back to where Katniss had been. She wanted to talk to that fiery pain in the ass, after all.

Nope. Katniss wasn’t there anymore, to her disappointment. Johanna’s physical suffering and extreme tiredness was much stronger than her dismay, however, and she felt the need to lay back, allowing herself to rest. She had not taken much time to see what the doctors put into her veins, but, _boy_ , did she _like_ how it felt.

* * *

 She’d been asleep for _who knows how long_ when she regained consciousness once more. There was a slight disorientation when she noticed that she had been moved to a proper hospital room, complete with its own hospital bed and the expected sterile, _hospital_ surroundings. The thought of someone picking her up and relocating her without her knowledge bothered her a little; it may have even given her some anxiety, had she not tiredly decided to push that concern away for the time being. She had other, more grave matters to worry about, such as the _pain_.

Speaking of which, something did seem different. She looked to her arm, quickly glancing over the intravenous tube that started in her arm and ended in some sort of familiar-looking drip. _Morphling_. Oh, no wonder things had felt so _odd_. They were pumping her with painkillers. This was not the first time she had been on substances. After her first games, she became rather gruesomely injured, and she’d required morphling then, as well. It was a difficult drug to get off of, _that_ much she remembered. She was not sure how she would deal with it this time, but for the current moment, she did nothing to stop it from flowing through her veins. The slight amount of relief it provided was better than anything else. _For now_.

Her gaze wandered to herself, her body. She looked like a goddamned corpse, as far as she was concerned. Bruises everywhere, oozing scabs, electrical burns, cuts and abrasions that were bound to remain in the form of a scar. Her body felt cold, and though she couldn’t have weighed much at all due to the severe lack of food, her body seemed heavier than ever. With much exerted effort, she tucked herself under the sheets of the hospital bed. staring down at her own form. Still bony, but less noticeable under the sheets. _Good_. She didn’t want to have to look at herself.

“Johanna.”

The voice caused her to startle. Standing mere feet away from her was Finnick Odair, fellow Victor two times over and long-time friend of Johanna’s. On his face was a solemn expression, almost mortified, as if he’d never seen someone in such a horrid state before.

Johanna stared back. Her eyes widened, she was silent for a passing moment, and then-

“Finnick.”

It was then, within an instant, that Finnick rushed to the bedside, approaching closer, the shock on his face not particularly lessening but instead shifting into something much more concerned. His gaze hovered over her for another moment, and he was wordless, mouth just slightly agape as he took in the drastic changes.

“Johanna,” his voice was just barely above a whisper, “You…”

“Look like shit? I know,” came Johanna’s stab at finishing his sentence.

Finnick shook his head, quickly, letting out a sharp, emotional exhale. Relief slowly washed over the stunned look upon his facial features. “You’re _alive_.” He glanced around the room, finding a chair to pull up to the bed, doing so quickly, as if he couldn’t let himself waste a single moment. He sat himself down, close to Johanna’s bed. “You’re **_alive_** ,” he repeated.

The corner of Johanna’s lips twitched as she internally fought the urge to break down. She didn’t need to be doing that in front of Finnick. “Yeah,” she nodded her head, hastily, “Yeah, I am.”

Finnick reached out to her, and Johanna returned the gesture, holding her hand out, allowing him to take it into his own. He held on gently, like she would break if he held her hand any tighter. Johanna was well aware of this intention, and she didn’t want to be seen as something so weak, so fragile, so  _vulnerable_ ; yet, she was afraid she _was_ all of those things. _What had she become?_

Finnick’s words pulled her from another self-deprecating train of thought. “I’m so glad,” he chuckled lightly, though his tone was more so overwhelmed with relief than anything of a comedic nature. “I thought you were dead, that they had killed you, and for a while I even wished it, because you must have been going through so much suffering, Johanna-”

“Hey,” Johanna interrupted him, giving him a small shake with her hand, the same one that he still clung to. “I made it through. I’m still here.”

“I missed you so much,” Finnick whispered.

Something vaguely resembling a smile showed on Johanna’s tired face. “I missed you, too.”

There was a silence between the two of them, the quietness in the room filled in by the sound of rhythmically beeping and whirring medical machinery. Johanna’s breaths slowly steadied, and for a moment, Finnick averted his gaze, watching the machines. There was something heavy in the air, something emotional, but heavy, as though certain words were going unsaid, their weight too much for a first conversation.

Finnick was the one to break the silence. “You don’t have to tell me anything,” he spoke gently, releasing Johanna’s hand, placing his own upon his lap, “but just know that I’m here for you, if things get hard, or if life starts to feel unbearable, or… _anything_.”

The friendship Johanna and Finnick had formed over the years was truly something she would never take for granted. Finnick was not always around; he was a busy man, and at times, Johanna was a busy woman. Yet, whenever they were around each other, it was as if no time had passed at all, as if nothing had pulled them apart. They were there for each other. It went without saying. If Johanna had been the one to pull Finnick from dissociation after days of Capitol patrons’ abuse, then just _maybe_ , Finnick could be the one to assist in rekindling Johanna’s dying flame, someone to motivate her to heal after such an unimaginable hell.

The two of them had supported each other in the past, after all. That was what friends were for, right?

He was just about the only living person left that Johanna would show _softness_ around. “I’ll hold you to that, Odair.” Johanna wiggled her eyebrows emphatically at Finnick. “I don’t want to talk about it right now, though. Tell me about what I missed.”

Finnick smiled gently. “It has not been the easiest in Thirteen. If you want the truth without any sugarcoating, well,” he shook his head. “I’ve felt like I’ve been on the cusp of giving up on everything. That is, when Annie was gone, and while you and Peeta were–” Finnick’s voice trembled at these last words. “you know.”

“Fuck,” Johanna murmured in response, “I’m sure as hell glad you didn’t give up. Sounds like life in Thirteen hasn’t been a cakewalk.”

Finnick scoffed. “No,” he said, “There was a bombing from the Capitol, things got bad. Katniss has been around. Her and I have sort of helped each other through the whole thing.”

“Did anyone die? Johanna asked. "From the bombing, I mean?”

“I don’t think so,” Finnick replied.

Johanna sighed, leaning back against her pillow. The Morphling was really making concentration difficult; it was so tempting to zone out, to fall back asleep, but _no_ \- she had to do this. She had to concentrate on one single conversation. That was _not_ even a difficult task; at least, it _hadn’t_ been difficult for her in the past. “Hey,” she started, “How long has it been? You know, since everyone got here. I haven’t been able to pay a lot of attention, thanks to the drugs they’re giving me.”

Finnick shrugged. He appeared to be stifling a yawn. “Maybe five hours? I don’t know. It’s pretty late. I get the feeling I might not be allowed to visit for much longer.”

“We’re Victors,” Johanna deadpanned in return, “Does anyone _really_ think they can stop us from doing what we want?”

“I’m pretty sure Coin does, at the very least.”

“Hmm.” Johanna frowned. Deciding upon changing the subject, she took things in a different direction. “How has Annie been holding up?” The question was something she had been putting off; one of the last times she saw Annie was in the Capitol, when her and Peeta had been tortured right in front of her. If Annie had been fucked up mentally before, then she would likely be worse by now.

Johanna could still hear Annie’s screams echoing in her head whenever she thought of her.

“She’s been having a rough time,” Finnick spoke carefully, “but I’m so relieved to have her back in safety. I- I don’t know what I would do if she was _gone_.”

“I’m happy for you two,” Johanna managed a tiny smile.

“Thank you.”

A nurse stepped into the room. “Visiting hours are almost over,” the nurse stated cautiously, “You should wrap things up.”

As the nurse walked away, Johanna rolled her eyes, making an exaggerated gagging motion. “ _Ugh_.”

Finnick snickered. “It’s good to see your attitude hasn’t gone anywhere.”

“I keep it on a short leash,” Johanna replied, “just to make sure it doesn’t _run away_ on me. What would I be without it?” _Probably nothing_ , she thought.

Standing himself up and pushing the chair back to where it had been previously, Finnick soon returned to stand beside the hospital bed. He gave another smile in Johanna’s direction, and it almost looked a bit _awkward_ on his part, though Johanna wasn’t sure if that was intentional. “I think I should get going. Annie is… I, uh- I don’t want to leave her alone for too long. Just in case.”

“Yeah, you go. Go to your Annie,” Johanna made a shooing gesture with her hand. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Of course.” Giving a small, careful pat on Johanna’s shoulder, Finnick turned back to glance at the door. “It’s good to have my best friend back.”

“I return the sentiment,” Johanna replied.

Finnick left shortly after, and Johanna took comfort in knowing that she had a friend again.


	11. Talking

There was something about being hooked up to medical equipment that made Johanna's skin crawl, made her feel uncomfortable beyond words. It brought unpleasant memories, reminded her of the times that she was hooked up to _other things_. Instead of delivering painful electric shocks and convulsions, however, these machines delivered medication, intravenous feeding, things that would heal and numb her instead of hinder her.

That did not mean that she liked how it felt.

She hadn't been in Thirteen for long, though most of her time had been spent sleeping, resting away her sorrows. Rather lackluster, in her opinion, though the morphling helped quell the rampant memories and nightmares that constantly threatened her. It wasn't as if she had anything else to do, anyhow; Finnick was her last visitor, and he had only visited once thus far, making sleep favorable to loneliness. As long as she kept her mind away from the fact that she was so dreadfully lonesome, dreadfully in pain, and so terrified of everything, she figured things would be okay.

A flawed plan like that could only last for so long.

It was around this time, however, that she _did_ get a visitor. When it happened, she startled at the very footsteps, anticipating something of unimaginable horror, eyes widened and frail body stiffened.

_Just a Doctor. Not a torture technician, right?_ Because they'd _never_ send someone to torture her even more. _Right. Right. Keep telling yourself that, Johanna, and maybe you'll believe it._

Johanna's dry, cracked lips fought to find words, fought to have any sort of introduction to the man, tried to think of _something_ to say, _anything_.

"What do you want from me?" was what came out.

The man smiled cautiously, then he extended a hand to Johanna. "Johanna Mason, yes? My name is Doctor Aurelius. I'm one of the head doctors here in District Thirteen." Johanna simply looked at his hand with a cold and discomforted stare, didn't shake it. In reaction to this, he awkwardly pulled his hand away, looking a bit discomforted at her lack of friendliness. That expression of his faded, however, as he continued to speak. "I'm going to be your therapist while you're here. It's my job to visit you daily for counseling."

Johanna continued her stare for the next passing moments before she cracked a smile, letting out forced, sarcastic laughter. "You're _kidding_ , right, Doc?" She shook her head, disbelief on her sunken features. "I hate to break it to you, but I think I'm a little too fucked up to be fixed by some _head Doctor_. The damage was done a _long_ time ago."

"I understand that you've been through a lot," Dr. Aurelius countered, "but I'm here to do what I can to help you. You're not in danger, Johanna. The Capitol cannot hurt you anymore. You're safe."

"Yeah? Is that what you tell everyone who's been brutally tortured for, what - weeks? Over a month? I am _not_ safe. 'Never was."

"I can promise you that they aren't going to hurt you from here. I would like you to tell me why you don't feel safe, though. Why don't you?"

His question caused Johanna to grimace, gesturing to body, to her bare head. "Do I _look_ like I'm capable of fending for myself? Like I'm anything other than a corpse? Like I've been through _anything_ other than torture? How am I supposed to feel safe?" Her voice began to tremble as she continued speaking, more and more emotion seeping through her tone. "I just _can't_ feel safe. Not after what they did to me."

"It's understandable that you'd feel that way. I'm not trying to invalidate how you feel," the Doctor explained, "I simply wanted to express that - well, the people in Thirteen," he shook his head, "we're not like those from the Capitol. If it is any reassurance, Katniss Everdeen herself made sure that nobody would harm you."

Johanna furrowed her eyebrows, her trembling tone of voice finding some stability in time for her to make an inquiry. "What do you mean?"

"She requested a pardon," Aurelius explained, "ensuring that the Victors rescued from the Capitol's custody would be protected. The President made it official before the squad was sent to rescue you. You are, in fact, _legally_ safe."

"Really?" This news did cause Johanna to perk up ever so slightly, leading her to sit up in bed. This didn't last long, as a wave of pain was enough to make her lower herself back down. A quiet, pained grunt escaped her as she moved. Regaining her composure was a challenge, though she was able to do so after a few moments, albeit partially. "Katniss did that, huh? I'm part of that deal?"

"Yes. Nobody here is going to hurt you - nobody wants to, and nobody is allowed to. You are safe from the Capitol, and you are most certainly safe from anyone here."

Johanna sighed, leaning back against her hospital bed. "Well, okay." Even with this in mind, it was difficult to believe him. Having her sense of security torn from her lead to difficulties in these situations. Of course, she lacked the energy to continue arguing. She made a mental note for what Katniss had done, regardless, finding it important that such a sacrifice could be made for the other Victors. It was… _kind_. _Heroic_ , even, and that alone gave Johanna both warned her heart and disgusted her. How could one human being be so… _good_?

_It was probably just for Peeta, though_. That thought made her deflate slightly. Katniss couldn't have cared that much about Johanna, not enough to pardon _her_. Why would she have?

"Now, Johanna," Aurelius caught Johanna's attention again, causing her to look back at him. "I have to ask you something. I realize that this is going to be a difficult question, but knowing this will help your treatment, both mentally and physically. You are under no obligation to go into explicit detail," his words made Johanna's muscles tense, "but, can you tell me what happened while you were in the Capitol? Any information can help."

Johanna hesitated, quiet. She had been avoiding this subject altogether, denying even _herself_ from the truth, hoping that the memories would just fade away. Inhaling deeply and letting the uneasy breath out with a sigh, she dared to dig into her memories, dared to contemplate what had happened in that cell. "They tortured me, asked me questions about the rebellion."

"Did you tell them anything?"

Johanna sighed again, her stability beginning to waver once again. "No. I- I mean, nothing that they didn't already know. I tried giving them the wrong information once or twice. It didn't end well, but, _but_ … _No_. The _rebel secrets_ are safe."

Dr. Aurelius nodded patiently. "That must have taken a lot of strength to hold on for so long."

"No shit," Johanna rasped, running her fingertips along her bald head. Nothing had grown in since it had been shaved; at the very least, she couldn't _see_ or _feel_ any new growth. "Cost me my hair, _and_ …" The bruises and scabs were sensitive to her touch, and she lifted her hand away from her head at the contact. " _Well_ , everything else, as you can _probably_ tell from how I look."

"Is that why your head is shaved? Did they do that?"

The former Victor nodded. "Electricity flows better when there's no hair in the way." Her own words caused her to tremble, her breathing less stable than before. "They shocked me," she continued. As she spoke she fought tears from spilling. Her eyes closed, hoping the fact that she was crying would not be obvious, though her face and voice had likely already given it away. "Over, and over, and _over_. When that didn't work, they soaked me with water, and they shocked me again." She could feel the electricity again, the memories fresh in her mind, the feeling of water filling her lungs and choking the life out of her. Squeezing her eyes tighter, she tried to think of something else, anything but this, anything but the _torture_.  The shocks, the water, Peeta's screams; the feeling of Larimar's cold, sinister hands ruining her skin - it was all so _real_. "I can't do this. I can't. I'm done talking about this. You know everything you need to know."

"It's okay," came Doctor Aurelius' voice. He stood up, audibly walking over to the other side of the room, grabbing something and placing it before Johanna. When she opened her eyes, she saw that he had gotten her a tissue. "You don't have to talk about it anymore if you don't want to."

"No," Johanna grabbed the tissue, dabbing at her eyes as if she were desperate to stop the tears from coming. They failed to stop. "It's _not_ okay. You know what happened? The rebels left me behind in the arena. They picked up that _super special Mockingjay_ , because that's the only person they really care about, and they left _me_ and _Peeta_ behind! Hell, if they had picked up Peeta during that time, they wouldn't have even worried about getting me out of the Capitol. I'm not _important_ to anyone." The tissue had become soaked, its lifespan shortened by the amount of tears she had wept into it. "It's not okay. I'm not okay. I'm never going to _be_ okay. They've messed me up permanently, and nobody can fix that."

The Doctor was quiet for a moment, his expression stoic. "You're right in saying that it isn't okay. I apologize for wording that improperly. Living with trauma isn't always going to be easy. I won't be able to fix what's happened to you, but I want to do everything I can to help make things more bearable. You can recover from this," he had a sincere look in his eyes. "You have a right to feel upset, but it's not true that you aren't important. You have done a great deal to help the rebellion, to keep the Mockingjay safe, to ensure that the Capitol knew as little about our involvement as possible. That's not something everyone could do."

"But does anyone else see it that way?"

"It's likely that there are people who do. It's best not to rule out that possibility."

Johanna frowned, her eyes still puffy, using the sleeve of her paper-thin hospital grown to wipe her eyes. "Well, no offense, but I'm pretty sure Snow took my optimism along with everything else."

"I'm not judging you for that. Healing from something like this - from what you've been through - it takes time. You're entitled to feeling the way you do."

"Damn right I am," Johanna shot back, as if there had been a burst of energy that motivated her; it was likely just for show, of course. She would not let herself stay teary-eyed for too long. She had done enough of that in her first games. "I should be entitled to _anything_ , after what I was put through."

"That's the spirit. You've stared death in the face many times, and you're still around to tell the stories of it. I look forward to working with you, Johanna. _You're_ … quite the tough one."

Waving a dismissive hand at the Doctor, Johanna shrugged. "Yeah, well, I have to be. 'Can't go through hell and back, otherwise."

Aurelius nodded. "You've certainly been through a lot, and it's important to remember that the Capitol can't reach you from here. I understand that it can be difficult to believe, after everything, but they're far away. They can't stop you from recovering."

Johanna gave a small nod of her head, a certain glumness to her, finding difficulty in believing him. Still, his words had fueled her ego slightly, which was something she could appreciate.

"I'll be taking my leave for now, then," he spoke again,  "as it seems our time is up. I'll speak with you tomorrow."

"Get out of here, then, Doc. I'll see you later."

She finally had someone to talk to - neither a friend, nor a family member, but _another human being,_ nonetheless.

* * *

Johanna stared at the intravenous tube. It was attached to the crook of her left arm, the surrounding adhesive covering her bruised skin. She'd heard some people speak of fearing needles, of being afraid of having an IV or a tube in their skin. Ironically, it was never something that had bothered Johanna; at least, it did not bother her nearly as much as everything else had. She'd take twenty IVs and needles combined over the Capitol.

The oxygen tube she had on her face, however, was a bit more annoying. She frequently pulled that away from her face to ease discomfort, only find that breathing without it was even less comfortable.

Again, she would take _anything_ over the Capitol, annoying medical equipment included.

The lighting in District Thirteen was dim, poorly lit. Maybe it was to conserve energy, with everything being hidden and underground. Johanna wouldn't have known, but she was quite certain it was _dull_.

Dull wasn't the worst thing. It was not blindingly lit, there were not any enclosed white walls, drains, or devices that could _shock the life out of her_ \--

Her breathing came to a halt, anxiety melting a hole in her gut at the thought of the water running down her and the electrocution pulsing through her body. She couldn't breathe; tried to, but nothing came, nothing came, her vision was distorting and blanking, and-

…

_Breathe_.

The breath that Johanna took was a struggle, a sharp inhale, eyes widened and mouth agape like a fish on land, gasping for… not water, not air -

Well, _gasping_.

"This isn't the Capitol," Johanna said aloud, as if saying it to herself verbally would have convinced her that she wasn't about to go through the nonstop torture again. "Totally safe, right? Yeah, that's bullshit."

Shaking her head, she attempted to sit up in bed, ignoring the sharp pain that shot through her body at the movement. She had spent enough time wallowing around in her own misery. It was time to be productive, to find a proper distraction from the danger of her own mind. The tips of her bare feet hovered over the floor, a surface colored in dull blue tiles that she had not bothered to put much effort into examining, and after fighting more pain, her feet landed on that very floor. She pushed herself from the bed, her standing a wobble, overcome by an overwhelming dizziness cloud her vision as she stood. It felt like hell, but she was determined to make something of her time. So, with precarious steps, Johanna grabbed the morphling drip, wheeling it along with her after she'd again discarded the oxygen tube. Fuck being in the right mind to make logical decisions, right? _Yeah, fuck that._ Attempting to either drag or remove any other equipment that was attached to her, she ambled away from her hospital room.

"Is there anyone I can talk to here?" was the first thing she asked upon leaving her room and reaching the lobby. Her slurred words caused a bit of startle from the doctors and nurses that rushed by. She couldn't have been _that_ heavily drugged, could she? It didn't matter. Waving a bruised and undernourished arm in the air, she called out. "I'd like to know what the _fuck_ the deal is with this rebellion! _Hello?_ "

One of the nurses was the first person to greet her, a nervous look on her face. After taking a quick glance at the plastic and metal identification band wrapped around Johanna's wrist, she spoke up. "Johanna, it would be best for you to go back into your room. Let me walk you back."

"That still doesn't answer my question," Johanna directed a very obvious glare at the woman, though she didn't resist the guidance as the nurse slowly pushed her in the direction of her room. Regardless of it, the Victor kept talking.  "I spent forever locked in a shitty cell in the Capitol. 'You think I'm going to just - just sit back in some hospital bed and let people examine me like an… _um_ …" _Ugh, these painkillers were killing her wit more than they were killing her pain_. "Like - **_whatever_**. Seriously, can you just tell me what I've missed out on?"

"There's a call button next to your bed, miss," the nurse replied, "If you need something, you can press it. It is dangerous for you to detach yourself from your monitors." There was a look on the woman's face that was utterly bewildered, as if she had no idea just how someone like Johanna was up and walking to begin with. Johanna would admit that moving around felt horrible as ever, but she was far too out of it to properly see to that pain. When she made it back to her bed, she did so grumpily, with little interest in laying back down. Swinging her overly thin legs off the side of the bed, she stared up at the older woman.

" _Nurse_ , I'm in the dark here," Johanna complained, glaring, "I got tortured for this! Can you find me someone to fill me in on everything? I hate not knowing what I went through everything for."

"I'll see if I can arrange something," the nurse answered in response, "Do you know how to use the call button?"

A stubborn glance was made at the call button. _If anyone knew what I've been through, they would stop treating me like some baby who can't handle herself_. Johanna scoffed at this thought, agitatedly poking the call button. "Yeah, I got it."

The nurse seemed to be rather flustered at Johanna's prodding, and when she responded, it was quick, stuttering, her hands motioning emphatically as she spoke. "Y-you don't need to do that right now, _I'm_ right here, I- _um_ …"

"I was just testing it to see if it worked," Johanna replied, her arms falling back to her side. "Tell your _hospital friends_ that I'm all good- _well_ , I'm not _good_ , at all, actually. Consider upping the pain meds, huh? I can still _feel_ what the Capitol did to me."

"I'll try to arrange something. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Nope, that'll be all."

Johanna kept her gaze on the nurse as she left; it had become increasingly obvious that the woman was entirely awkward around the newly freed Victor. Johanna found that sort of annoying, though part of her sort of _accepted_ that she was somewhat feared amongst certain hospital staff. It felt… not necessarily _great_ , but it was better than being the obviously fearful one. It was better than spending the rest of her days strapped to a hard, uncomfortable chair and listening to the incessant _screams_ of Peeta Mellark, those of which had sickeningly become a comfort to her after enough time.

She would take this. This was not torture. It was not _nice_ , it did not feel _like_ home, there was no one to bring her true comfort or happiness. No one held her as a first priority, no one had rushed to embrace her as soon as she'd arrived. That was to be expected. There wasn't anyone left for her.

Johanna couldn't help but wonder what her family would think, how they would _feel_ if they saw her as she was; covered in bruises, scabs, abrasions all over - starved out, _bald_. What would her parents have thought? Would they have been proud of her for holding out for so long, for refusing to give up no matter how many times she was beaten down? Proud of her for refusing to tell the Capitol anything important about the rebellion? Proud of her for keeping secrets?

Maybe they would have been, or perhaps they _wouldn't_. Perhaps they would've been disgusted by how much she had changed, as she was now. Perhaps they wouldn't recognize her, or they just would not know how to react, like so many people seemed to. Would they treat her like a stranger, like she wasn't the Johanna they raised?

They were dead. There wasn't any point in wondering what would happen if they weren't, she supposed.

Still, what would they have thought?

What would her _sister_ have thought?

Johanna felt a great ache in her heart at the thought of her family. The pain never ceased, in fact; even in regular, every day scenarios, she still thought of them. In torture, she had thought of them, and now she followed that pattern, wondering what their ghosts would have thought, could have thought.

She felt odd, she felt… _lonely_ , and such a realization as that only worsened her bad mood. Johanna was lonely; she deeply, achingly missed her family, and she had next to no friends to keep her company. There was Finnick, sure, but again, Johanna wasn't the most important to him, to anyone. Even Peeta wasn't around to listen to her complain anymore, probably stowed off in some high-security area meant for people who were too violent to handle themselves, let alone anyone else.

It was the loneliness that would make it all worse, wasn't it?

This wasn't going to be an easy stay. Sure, she was alive, but at what cost? When would she begin dealing with the aftermath of everything that they had done to her in the Capitol? When would her false sense of security come crashing down?

She didn't know. It was hard to stay positive, and yet some part of her still continued to hold on.

The need to avenge her family, to find a way to kill Snow, to tear the hearts out of everyone who had killed them and everyone who had tortured her - it fueled her.

Somehow, she would find a way to get through this suffering, and she would find a way to get there.

* * *

"How are you feeling today, Johanna?"

It was over halfway through their second therapy session, and Johanna still remained ever so reluctant to divulge her stresses and her worries, feeling as if talking about how she felt would give up some key part of her. That might have been remnants of her torture, an instinct not to share anything still remnant from the very recent causes of her trauma.

"What do you think? You're some kind of _masterful brain expert_. Work your mind-reading magic on me." Johanna's gaze was impatient, sitting up, her legs tucked beneath her and her elbow resting on the arm of the hospital bed. She supported her head with the palm of her hand, leaning onto her own arm, never looking any bit enthusiastic.

"Well, I don't have much to analyze yet, other than an apparent bad mood. Something is troubling you, is it not?"

"Yeah, I'm _troubled_ ," Johanna replied, huffing, "Torture will do that to you. Mental illness will do that, too, and physical illness; I don't even want to _know_ what happened to my stomach while I was in the Capitol, but I'm pretty sure I'm screwed over, as far as that goes."

"Why do you say that?"

"They didn't feed me very often. Once or twice, maybe the occasional IV food, or stale table scraps, but other than that, there was nothing." As she spoke, she looked over herself again, wondering just how skeletal she would appear next to a healthier version of herself. "I lost all of my muscles, I'm sure. 'Probably can't throw axes anymore. I'm sure there are a lot of things I can't do, actually. They did a real good job at stripping everything from me."

Whoops, so much for _not divulging her stresses and worries_. What a _bad_ job she had done with that plan. Well, she had already gone downhill, anyways; why not get herself into even deeper shit?

"I feel like I'm not even Johanna Mason anymore," came her continuation, her voice low and lacking in any enthusiasm, "like I'm just a dead body that has no way to define or express itself. Sure, I've got my anger, and I've still got my hate for the Capitol and Snow, but nearly everything else just feels… _gone_."

"What about the parts of you that remain?" Dr. Aurelius asked, after a brief moment of looking over his notes, "How do you feel about those? Are they negative parts of you, or would you consider them as more of motivating forces for you?"

For a moment, Johanna was silent, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed as she thought over the question. After another passing moment, she snickered. "Well, I would like to think that my interest in killing President Snow is a pretty strong force. Sometimes, I like to imagine just how it will happen, and that cheers me up for a while." Her words were followed by another pause. "The reasons I want to kill him aren't very positive, though. It's not just the torture. He killed everyone I love, you know."

There was a saddened, concerned look on the head Doctor's face as he listened to her words, and it remained in his voice when he responded. "That must have been very difficult for you."

"Yeah," Johanna nodded her head glumly. "I'm still not over it. I don't think I ever will be. I mean, what kind of seventeen-year old wants to come home after going through hell just to find out her parents and sister are dead?" A bitter chuckle escaped her, at this. "Then again, maybe it's poetic justice. I still see the children I killed every time I close my eyes. Maybe I don't _deserve_ to have a family, after what I've done. I mean, _they_ probably had loved ones, too. I wonder how much they hate me."

"While you've a right to feel guilty about your actions, I'm not sure the blame is entirely on you. The Capitol is to blame for most if The Games, is that not true?"

Johanna glared. "What do you know about the Capitol? I bet you've never lost anyone because of them, living a sheltered life here in Thirteen."

"Perhaps not, but the Capitol is a common enemy; even after this District went into hiding, the Capitol's damages have had a lasting affect on our people." For a moment, he was silent, that same sorrowful expression upon his features. "I give my condolences for what you have done through. I imagine that was incredibly painful for you."

"The worst ever," Johanna replied.

"I'd like to help you find manage that trauma. Even if this feels hopeless, there are ways to live with it."

"I'm not so sure about that, but if there is a way, I'd like to know."

"We can work on that as we continue our sessions," the Doctor spoke carefully. "I believe we are out of time for this session. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me today, Johanna. I know it isn't very fun for you to do, but talking will help you get through this."

Johanna gave a small shrug. "See you tomorrow, Doc."

She didn't love being seen as a patient. It was better, though, than being a _victim_ , than being a prisoner left to be tortured.

This wasn't the worst.

Johanna would find some way to cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for Chapter 11!
> 
> If you're still reading this, don't be afraid to leave a review or send in some feedback! 
> 
> No pressure if you don't want to, of course, but, _you know_ \- I'm definitely _not_ going to stop you from saying something. ;)


	12. Purring

Days passed by, and slowly, Johanna found herself making her way toward something resemblant of recovery. It was not easy, nor very enjoyable, but in time, her weakened and starved out body began to respond to the medical care being given to it. Soon enough, she was even fit to eat her own meals, as opposed to intravenous feeding.

Out of everything she was expecting, she was not expecting her first meal to be delivered by a kid. The girl walked into the room carefully, quietly, almost quiet enough that she could have gone unnoticed, if not for Johanna's paranoid tendencies. It took a moment for the former Victor to pinpoint just who the child was, but after getting a closer look at her face, recognition set in.

"Primrose?" Johanna's question was of a soft curiousness, her tone even and her brows raised. Of course, she had never met the youngest Everdeen in person, but she recognized the girl from her appearances on television. Primrose Everdeen was Panem's all time _favorite_ ; not a Victor, but the younger sibling of a very significant one, the little sister that Katniss had volunteered for. Everybody knew who Primrose was, even the people who… _well_ , didn't personally know her.

Primrose gave a small smile in Johanna's direction, attentively placing the food tray she'd been carrying onto the small table beside the hospital bed. "That's me. You're Johanna Mason, aren't you?"

Johanna only nodded.

"I've heard a lot about you," Primrose said, "not any bad things, I mean. I've heard about the good things you've done."

Raising an eyebrow, Johanna kept some of her attention on Prim, briefly glancing between her and the food. It really had been a long time since she ate, and she wasn't sure if she would even be _able_ to, after everything she'd gone through. Her gaze returned to the younger girl after a moment of contemplation, and that was when she responded with an inquiry. "Not any bad things? Really, now?"

Primrose gave a nod of her own. "You really protected Katniss, out in the arena. If it weren't for you, _I…_ I might have ended up without a sister."

That struck something inside of Johanna, tugged on her heartstrings. "I'm… glad things didn't end up that way for you." Oh, she knew how awful it felt to lose a sister. She hadn't thought much about that perspective until now; the fact that, by keeping _the Mockingjay safe_ , she could have also been protecting someone's big sister.

Primrose didn't miss the shift in Johanna's expression, and she gave her own sympathetic look in response. "Me too," she said in response, her eyes darting around the area. "I don't know if it would be too professional of me to give you a hug right now, but I would if I could. I'm actually here on shift - I'm training, hopefully to become a Doctor, in the future, but-" For a moment, she trailed off, and then she looked Johanna in the eyes, a genuine sincerity in her intentions. "I wanted to thank you, while I'm here. Thank you for keeping Katniss safe, Johanna. Thank you so much. You've done something amazing."

For the first time in a while, Johanna smiled. It was small, but genuine. It had been far too long since anyone had shown gratitude toward her - that wasn't to say she _expected_ it from anyone, but that receiving thanks from someone felt better than anything else had, in recent times. "Yeah, sure thing."  She fell quiet for a moment, finding the will to lean over to the tray and examine the tray a bit closer. Some kind of gelatin food was upon it, as well as a meaty broth and a glass of… _water_.  Well, that was disheartening. She quickly decided to divert her attention from that. "Hey, how's Katniss doing?"

The worried appearance of Prim's features was easy to notice. "She's been getting better - she's healing."

Johanna narrowed her eyes in confusion. "Healing from what?"

Prim only grew more concerned as she spoke, "There's something wrong with Peeta. The Doctors are calling it _hijacking_. When he was in the Capitol, the people holding him captive, _um_ …" With a hesitant pause, it was a few moments before she proceeded, "They used some kind of conditioning, I think, to make him attack Katniss."

Planting her face into her bony, malnourished palm, Johanna let out a small groan at that realization. _Of course. Peeta._ She should have warned people about him, shouldn't she have? It was too late for that now, but, _still_. She felt terrible knowing that she could have done something to prevent it. The influence of Morphling dulled her rage; certainly, without it, Johanna would have been far more angry. All she could manage was a disgusted response. "That's fucked-  _uh_. I mean, that's **_messed_** up," was what escaped her. Her mouth closed much quicker than she'd opened it. _Was she even supposed to swear in front of kids?_

Primrose simply nodded sadly. "Yeah," she responded, though her tone became more cautiously optimistic as she continued, "She's recovering, though. I'll let her know that you asked about her, if you'd like."

"I guess," Johanna responded. It was something she was actually quite uncertain on, truthfully. "If you really want to tell her, I'm not stopping you."

A gentle smile from Primrose was given, and she replied in benevolent tones, "All right." Giving a glance toward the door of the hospital room, she looked back to Johanna. "I have to go now, I need to get back to working. Thanks for seeing me, Johanna."

"Thanks for coming in. I wasn't thinking I'd get any visitors."

"I'll try to stop by later, if I can," Primrose said, "Maybe I'll bring another visitor with me." Her tone was quiet, the nature of the aforementioned _visitor_ unknown.

Johanna's brows raised, tilting her head toward the girl slightly to emphasize her words. "Very cryptic."

"I won't spoil the surprise. You'll see who it is," Primrose replied.

With that, they parted ways.

It took a lot of staring at the meal that had been delivered for Johanna to will herself to eat. It felt _strange_ , really, to actually eat food - it was something she wasn't sure she'd ever get to do, in the Capitol. After all of the time she'd spent being starved, beaten, and treated like she was undeserving of nourishment, it wasn't easy to believe that she'd _gotten_ to this point.

Still, it was _food,_ and she wouldn't let it go to waste. Johanna now knew to never let the opportunity for food slip away from her hands.

She gingerly avoided drinking any water.

 

* * *

 

 

That wasn't the last time Johanna saw Primrose. In fact, the next day, ( _or, was it night? Time passage was still confusing._ ) Johanna awoke to a strange sound coming from her lap. It was confusing, unlike anything she'd heard while being tortured, and she wasn't sure what to make of it. So, she opened her eyes, watched as the ball of fluff crawled all over her, and then her gaze automatically went to Prim. "How did you get a cat in here?" Johanna was quick to ask. Certainly, she hadn't seen this animal around before. This _had_ to be a new thing.

"I'm allowed to keep him in Thirteen, thanks to Katniss," Primrose explained, sitting herself on the foot of Johanna's hospital bed. The cat - a mustard-colored, long-furred creature - sauntered over to Primrose, walking over Johanna's legs to meet her. He bumped his head against the girl's hand, purring immediately at the attention she gave. "His name's Buttercup."

"You're allowed to bring this cat - uh, _Buttercup_ \- inside of the hospital?"

Prim glanced around the dimly lit room to make sure there were no onlookers, almost like she was keeping a secret of sorts, before smiling confidentially at Johanna. "Nobody has to know if he's here."

Johanna raised her eyebrows, sitting up on the bed. She casually ignored the agony that shot through her body as she moved. "That's so _sneaky_ and _rebellious_ of you. You really are an Everdeen, huh?" She glanced over to the cat, who had already begun walking over to Johanna - or, to be more accurate, walking _on_ her. The feeling of any sort of physical contact caused Johanna to wince slightly. Being touched in any way was still a sensitive thing for her, after the rough handling from Snow's loyalists. "What's he doing?" Johanna asked.

The youngest Everdeen smiled, chuckling under her breath. "He's coming over to say hi. If you stick your hand out, he can sniff you and get to know you better."

Jo had never been the sort to go through with what others wanted to, and yet, she found it difficult to turn down Primrose's suggestion. Slowly, she reached her hand out toward the cat - _he was a scruffy, weird-looking thing_ \- and allowed him to move closer. He did, leaning his head forward to take in Johanna's scent, glancing between Johanna's eyes and her hand. Then, a quiet _'mrrp'_ of a sound escaped him, and he gently nudged his nose against the tip of her finger, quickly backing his head away afterward.

"What's that mean?" Johanna asked softly, brows knit with a bewildered expression. She'd always enjoyed the occasional time she'd spent around animals, but she'd never been a pet owner herself, and she'd never gotten this close with any wildlife from Seven. The behavior of cats was as much of a mystery to her as the complex science from Three was. Essentially, Johanna had no idea what was going on, but she was intent on finding out.

Primrose's encouraging expression didn't leave her face when she responded, an eager whisper, "It might mean something good. Buttercup's pretty curious about you."

"Do you normally just… _bring_ him to patients like this?" Johanna asked.

"No," Primrose answered, shaking her head when she did so, watching as the cat continued to examine Johanna. "I just wanted to see how he'd react to you. I thought you two might be able to become friends."

Johanna had to hold back the urge to scoff. She wasn't the _friends_ type; not with friends, and not with animals. Yet, she couldn't quite bring herself to be an asshole to this kid, or her muddy yellow cat. Primrose wasn't the one who'd done anything wrong to Johanna, after all. So, instead, she asked a question unrelated to her passing thoughts, "What's the story with him?"

"I found him years ago as a kitten in Twelve," Primrose told Johanna, "Katniss didn't want to keep him. She thought he was just another mouth to feed, and she tried to get rid of him really early on. They still don't get along so well." As she spoke, the cat scurried back over to her, and she promptly began to spoil him with rigorous petting and affection. Buttercup, of course, was totally delighted by this. "He's a real good kitty. Doesn't like most people, though."

"Sounds like I have something in common with him," Johanna replied with a sneer. Her gaze was curious as she watched Buttercup make his way back to her after a minute, his purr leftover from the most recent attention Prim had given him. He stopped in Johanna's lap, examining the general area and the scent of both her and the hospital bed.

Prim inclined her head forward ever so slightly. "You can pet him, if you want to. He might let you," she said, her tone as low as a whisper.

Johanna shrugged. "I don't know. He probably won't like me."

"It won't hurt to try," Prim added, hopeful.

Reluctantly, Johanna extended her hand slightly. Buttercup came closer, giving her hand another sniff before rubbing his cheek against her fingertips. Afterward, he pushed his head into the palm of her hand, continuing to purr. Johanna was cautious as she gently stroked the cat's fur. It was somewhat matted, a bit unclean to the touch, but as she ran her hand from the back of his neck to the base of his tail, he only grew more contented. Buttercup let out a purring meow as Johanna continued to pet him.

"Looks like he likes you," Primrose's tone of voice sounded legitimately impressed. "That's unusual for him to get along with someone so quickly."

"Maybe it's because I'm not Katniss," Johanna remarked in return, scratching behind Buttercup's imperfect ears. Slouching over slightly to get her face closer to the animal, she spoke in an overly saccharine tone. "Is that it, Buttercup? Do you like me better than _brainless_?"

Buttercup just continued to purr before turning around in Johanna's lap, giving her a too-close view of his rear end. She quickly sat back up to avoid the sight. "Yeah, I thought so."

Sliding her feet off of the bed, Primrose walked over to Johanna's side, petting Buttercup as well. "He definitely likes you, then," Primrose stated, "It looks like you've just made yourself a friend, Johanna."

Continuing to rub her bruised hands gently along the cat's fur, Johanna looked over to Prim. "I feel so popular."

For a while, the two were quiet, and for the passing moments, the only sounds in the room were that of the hospital machinery and Buttercup's surprisingly _loud_ purr. Neither of them needed to fill the air with conversation, and for the first time in forever, Johanna found herself feeling at peace. If not completely so, then at least there was much _less_ anxiety flowing through her singed veins. Something close to relaxation was a welcomed feeling indeed.

Primrose let Buttercup stay with Johanna that night.

She fell asleep to a most comforting sound; not buzzing, not drowning. Neither screaming, nor crying. For once, there was something better to listen to.

This time around, Johanna welcomed a far better sound into her life: _purring_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the two kitties I brought home recently. If you're wondering about the shortness, don't worry! Future chapters will have more plot-relevant things to them. The angst isn't over, of course, but I felt that after all of that suffering, Johanna deserves a little bit of a break. 
> 
> Plus, I just have a lot of feelings about Buttercup. What a great cat.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
